


Letters to Qui-Gon Jinn

by flamethrower



Series: Letters... [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jedi Master Tahl is murdered, Qui-Gon Jinn leaves the Order, and his Padawan.</p><p>Obi-Wan Kenobi isn't about to let him go that easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to Qui-Gon Jinn

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lovely fic to write, but some things did not come from my brain.  
> Thus, credit is due in one instance to Dr. Seuss. (Sort of.)  
> To another, Stroke 9 and their song, Letters.  
> And last, a brief nod to Yeats.

 

“You know, he’s probably not gonna accept this, Kid.”

“Well, then we’ll all know, and it’ll be done and over with.  But I’m still going to try.”

“Wouldn’t your Master say somethin’ about Doing and not Trying?”

“Dex, I will hit you.”

“Hah!  Your lil’ fist couldn’t get through my first layer of fat, Kid.”

 

*          *          *          *

           

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_This would have been so much easier if you had actually stayed long enough for us to speak like civilized people._

_Granted, you haven’t been doing much speaking of late, but I have learned to interpret “hmm” and “grunt” and “pff” quite well, thanks to you.  It makes living with Master Yoda easier.  Do all of his Padawans and Grand-Padawans learn to communicate from him?  Because it’s annoying when an entire day passes and I have to base my interactions with you lot on one syllable sounds._

_(You know, I make a much better diplomat in writing than when I open my mouth.  I wonder if we were doomed to failure, following that course?)_

_I’m settling in quite nicely, I suppose.  I’ve only whacked my skull eight times so far on Master Yoda’s doorframes, and I’ve only tripped over his chair twice, so I’m calling it good._

_Gods, though, it’s like being back on probation all over again.  Master Windu keeps eyeing me with disdain, like it’s_ my _fault that Master Yoda isn’t constantly underfoot.  You’d think he’d be grateful—I imagine his shins have healed up nicely. Mine, however, are purple.  I’m going to find pipe insulation and coat that stick of his in it, I swear I am, before I wind up in the Healer Halls with shin splints or broken bones and I’ll happily point at the troll and tell the Healers that he did it, not my fault, I didn’t do a blasted thing, I didn’t fall or trip or run headlong into a blaster bolt.  Not. My. Fault.  The troll did it!  The rallying cry of Padawans past, I’m sure._

_I do miss you, though.  I’m not going to tell you to come back, as you’re likely hearing enough of that from Everyone Else.  But I need to talk to someone, and you’re no longer directly allied with the Order and thus I can tell you anything I want.  Congratulations:  You’ve just become a sounding board.  Believe me, I wouldn’t give you this task without reason; it seems that if you are a Council Padawan, everyone becomes terrified that you are going to confide their every noise of complaint to the Council and thus no one will tell you ANYTHING._

_*Please insert sound of head hitting a writing surface repeatedly here*_

_Garen understands, being Master Giett’s Padawan, but he’s so often piloting now that it’s like he isn’t living here at all.  So, unless I hear from you directly that I am to stop this writing nonsense, one of Dexter Jettster’s many, er, allies, will be hand-delivering a random missive to you on your travels, and thus you will still be inundated with my babble._

_Go with the Force, try not to get killed, and for Light’s sake, stop leaving Yoda sarcastic voice messages when he attempts to contact you.  It makes him grumpy, and I’m horrible at making cookies._

_Yours (indirectly),_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_It’s my sixteenth birthday today.  Yoda baked.  Oh, dear gods.  I have never been more grateful for tea, because he bakes as well as you cook and BLARGH.  (Please don’t tell him I said so.  He tried really hard.)_

_I have heard nothing but silence from you, and the sarcastic voice messages have ceased (bless you), so imagine my surprise when I get a rock for my birthday.  It’s beautiful—what did you do, carve it out of a cliff face yourself?  I can’t imagine anything but a lightsaber leaving such nice molten patterns behind.  Globs of silver over purple.  (Har. Har.)  Master Yoda says it talks, but I have my doubts, because he thinks Everything talks, including his stick, the couch, and his morning tea.  (Does the Council know its eldest member is touched in the head?  I’m just curious.)_

_I’ll wait and see.  Most of your gifts have hidden meanings, aside from the obvious: that my head is as dense as a rock, and thus the repetitive message._

_Oh gods above and below, how I hate hate hate astronavigation.  I liked maths until that course came along.  I stayed up half the night running those damned computations only to be told I’d slaughtered an entire shipload of Toydarians by sending them through a rather dense asteroid field._

_Ah, well.  They’re just Toydarians._

_…I’m kidding._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_You remember Siri Tachi, I’m sure.  Master Adi had just selected her as a Padawan before your…er…departure.  (See? Diplomatic skills of a Tree Stump.)  She’s two years younger than myself, placing her at fourteen and a half Standard, and apparently that’s, uh…_

_Oh, gods.  Her variant of human is apparently very sexually active at this age, and she followed me everywhere and I do mean Everywhere, even into the bloody male-only locker room!  Claimed I smelled good or something.  Rubbish._

_I finally got fed up and told her that unless she had a cock, I wasn’t interested. (Yes, verbatim.  Tree Stump.)_

_She gave me this Look and said that she had a strap-on with a perfectly excellent dildo, if that was my preference._

_Yes, I took her up on it.  Shut up.  I have to tell_ someone _, and you ignore me, so this works out just fine.  Deflowered by a girl.  Dammit.  Not that it was bad—in fact if she were a male it would be a regular thing, but just the once is fine, thank you._

_Problem was, when other female members of the Padawan sect saw that Siri had succeeded in gaining my attention, a bloody HORDE of them decided to try their luck.  I told them to leave me the hell alone or I would describe Yoda’s nether regions to them in great detail._

_They didn’t believe me.  Have traumatized fourteen so far.  Master thinks it’s hilarious._

_Siri, however, listened attentively, and then went and propositioned Master Yaddle._

_Ye gods._

_I need to get out of this Temple more often.  I’ve asked Master Yoda if we’re so sedentary because he wanted to ease me into this new apprenticeship.  He grumbled something and then told me that not every Jedi Master thought it a fine thing to go rushing headlong throughout the galaxy without stopping for breath._

_I told him I rather liked the rushing about part, and he assigned me extra meditation.  On top of the other extra meditation I had for being semi-responsible for a Padawan propositioning a Senior Librarian and Council member.  On top of the extra meditation for telling Master Lenth that he was absolute garbage at teaching astronomy and I could name more systems stone drunk than he ever could sober._

_Master Yoda tells me to be patient with Lenth, as the Force is in all things and there is always a lesson to be had.  This may be true, but if I spend any more time meditating on my arse, I’ll become a medical curiosity from developing hemorrhoids the size of star cruisers._

_Er, too descriptive.  Have lived with Master Yoda far too long already._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_PS- Master Yoda asks that if you hear anything concrete beyond the rumors of the Yinchorri buying up every bloody weaponized ship they can get their hands on, he’d appreciate a heads up.  Have a bad feeling about this.  The last time a group gathered up weapons to this extent was the Stark Hyperspace War._

_PPS—mentioned this to Master Adi.  She agrees with me.  Have_ very _bad feeling about this._

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_Sending this as your name popped up for—Fuck._

_You'll probably have heard by the time this letter gets to you, but Master Micah is dead.  Killed on Yinchorri.  Garen, too._

_Master Micah has your name written in place for overseeing his estate, what there is of it.  I know Coruscant is not one of your favorite places, but it would likely be easiest to deal with the legal aspects here.  Or the stuff aspects.  I told everyone to stay the hell out of his and Garen’s rooms until Yoda or I get an answer from you in this regard._

_I know it’s probably selfish, but I’d really like to—_

_No. That IS selfish.  Idiot.  (Myself, not you.)_

_—Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan was sitting on a bench near the Eastern Garden entrance, scowling at his datapad.  “You’re just pissed off because I told you the truth,” he muttered under his breath.

“While truth is a good policy, sometimes it is wise to use elegant and careful phrasing when giving it to others.”

Obi-Wan almost dropped the datapad in surprise.  He looked up and felt himself smile for the first time in days.  “Qui-Gon,” he said, and tried to hurriedly make room on the bench.  His former Master looked on with mild interest while Obi-Wan swore under his breath and stuffed texts and notes and disks into a bag.  “Please.  Have a seat, before anything else migrates out of my bag and takes up space.”

This time Qui-Gon’s lips did quirk up in a smile.  “I thank you,” he said, and settled into place, close enough that Obi-Wan could feel the heat of his body, accompanied by the faintest hint of sweet pine.  “It’s been a long trip.”

“You’ve just arrived?  Force, no wonder you’re not being swarmed yet,” Obi-Wan replied.  Not that Qui-Gon had worn anything Jedi-like, and Obi-Wan guessed that he hadn’t since the day he’d left the Temple, after Master Tahl’s funeral.  Qui-Gon’s hair was the same length, if a bit more silver at the temples, but he’d pulled it all back into a simple long braid that fell halfway down his back.  He was wearing brown trousers that at least seemed similar to those he’d worn as a Master, but a loose slate blue shirt topped it instead of tunics.  The color made him look…nice. 

Obi-Wan tried not to flush, both at his lack of decent vocabulary and his sudden acknowledgement that his one-time teacher did indeed look _very_ nice. 

“I don’t _want_ to be swarmed,” Qui-Gon confirmed, leaning back against the stone wall Obi-Wan had shoved the bench up against before claiming it as his own.  “But you were correct; if I’m to deal with anything of Micah’s, it’s best to be done here.” 

He hesitated, and Obi-Wan could see the older man’s grief flash in his eyes before it was hidden once more.  “How are you, Obi-Wan?  I know that Garen Muln was your friend.”

“I’m…fine, I guess,” Obi-Wan said, and then realized he was still toying with the errant datapad he’d been perusing before Qui-Gon Jinn’s unexpected arrival.  “And you?”

Qui-Gon inclined his head.  “I’m fine, as well.”

They both stared at the garden entrance, a portal to greenery and sunshine, whereas the alcove Obi-Wan had chosen was dark and cool.  “We’re both lying, aren’t we?” he said after a time.

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “Yes.  I—Micah and I were friends in the creche, much as you and Garen were.  I still find myself shocked to realize that…” 

He closed his eyes, and Obi-Wan bit his lip.  He hadn’t known that, and it made him ache for his friend’s loss, for Qui-Gon’s loss, all the more. 

“Still,” Qui-Gon said, opening his eyes.  “All things wait for us in the Force.”

“Master Yoda keeps saying that.  I keep telling him that if that’s so, Garen needs to get his ass back here, because he still owes me ten credits,” Obi-Wan retorted, and the sharp knife-edge of grief tore into his heart once more.  He sniffed back the tears that wanted to form.

Qui-Gon’s blue eyes were red-rimmed when they looked at each other again.  “Micah still owed me a drink, and as the inheritor of part of his estate, I suggest that we collect on his credit.  Do you have time to join me?”

Obi-Wan blinked in shock at the invitation.  “Er, yes!” he stammered, trying not to blush again.  He shoved the datapad in with its relatives—his class load was _insane_ this year—and stood up.  “Not that I’m legal, but you can drink and I’ll learn by observation.”

“Obi-Wan, there are places on this planet that will serve alcohol to a Jedi even if they’re just out of diapers,” Qui-Gon told him.  To Obi-Wan’s surprise and intense happiness, Qui-Gon draped a companionable arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.  “Though, do tell Yoda where we’re going so he doesn’t think I’m kidnapping you for some sinister purpose.”

“You sound like Master Mace,” Obi-Wan said, rolling his eyes.  _Master, Qui-Gon is here._

There was a moment of happy surprise through their training bond.  _Mm.  About time, he is.  Visiting you, is he?_

_Yes, Master.  I believe he’s taking me to get slightly inebriated._

_Hmm.  If come home sloshed you do, make fun of you I will, and sympathize I will not in the morning,_ Yoda grumbled back. 

 _Sloshed I will not be, for fool I am not,_ Obi-Wan replied, smiling.

_Tell my grand-Padawan, you will, that expect him I do before his departure, or dent his head with my stick I will._

Obi-Wan blinked and glanced up at Qui-Gon.  “Master says if you don’t visit, he’ll break his stick over your head.”

Qui-Gon blew out a long breath.  “I don’t doubt it in the slightest.”

The place Qui-Gon took him was closer than Obi-Wan would have guessed, and higher class than he might have suspected.  Qui-Gon ordered for them both, after Obi-Wan looked at the extensive alcoholic menu in complete and utter bafflement.  He’d drank before, served by staff at myriad diplomatic functions where his age meant nothing, but there were things on the list that he doubted half the galaxy had even _heard_ of.

What came to him was colored blue, tasted of sweet citrus, and made his face and hands warm after three swallows.  “Great Force,” Obi-Wan whispered, eyes wide.  “What are you trying to do, get me hammered?”

Qui-Gon shrugged.  “It seemed like a good choice, given your past tastes, but your tolerance seems to have diminished during the past two years.”

“We haven’t left this bloody planet in six months.  At this rate, I’ll have the alcoholic tolerance of a toddler the next time Master Yoda snags a mission off of the roster for us.”  Obi-Wan rubbed his forehead, grimacing.  “Sorry, I’m not trying to complain.  I’m not bored, and at this rate I’ll be done with all of my schooling by the year’s end, but…”

“I suppose I did sort of turn you into a traveler,” Qui-Gon mused, taking a sip of something that was green and smelled good and was potentially illegal.  “You’ll be Knighted soon enough, and then you may wander to your heart’s content.”

“I’m not even seventeen yet, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Obi-Wan said, though he couldn’t help smiling at the compliment.  Him, a Knight?  Soon?  That was a solid, straight-up fantasy!  And yet…  “Thank you.”

“There, you haven’t lost all of your diplomatic training, if you remember to be thankful when complimented,” Qui-Gon told him, his face momentarily lit by a very large, pleased grin.  “Though Yoda seems to have neglected to continue that facet, judging by what you were saying when I found you.”

“Oh, that’s just the current history instructor, Knight P’ath.”  Obi-Wan dug the offending data pad out of his bag and handed it to Qui-Gon.  “She said she wanted an accurate assessment of her teaching skills from her higher level students, so that she could keep our ideas in mind for the next rotation of new students.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes flickered rapidly back and forth as he read the text, and more than once a smile touched his lips.  Then he started outright laughing, a sound Obi-Wan had heard only rarely during their short time together.  “Oh…my stars,” he said, and took a long drink from his glass before beginning to recite Obi-Wan’s observations out loud.

“‘Your teaching style is very good, as long as you are aiming to maintain the attention of the male, lesbian or otherwise gendered parts of the class.  You should really buy a shirt that fits, by the way, because more than once in the last ten-day you’ve managed to prove to the class that both of your nipples are pierced.  I’m not interested, myself, but my seatmates were very entertained,’” Qui-Gon read, his eyes dancing.  ‘“And though the nickname might have been popular, Captain Shovee Litus might not appreciate being referred to as Cap’n Shoveltits over and over again, especially as you never bothered to share her actual name with the class.”’

Qui-Gon handed the datapad back to Obi-Wan, finished his drink and ordered another.  “Force, Obi-Wan.  How much extra meditation did this one earn you?”

“None,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head.  “Knight P’ath tried to have me censured, but Master Adi started laughing so hard she cried, so Master Mace gave up and told me to at least try to be a bit more diplomatic the next time an instructor asked for a review.  I wisely kept my mouth shut and refrained from telling him that this _was_ the diplomatic version.”

“And what did Yoda say?” Qui-Gon wanted to know.

Obi-Wan grinned.  “He said that there were plenty of diplomats in the Order already, and he always has more fun when there are people around who tell the unabashed truth.  Granted, I don’t think he expected me to sledgehammer people with it.”

Qui-Gon chuckled and raised his glass, and Obi-Wan hurriedly picked up his glass of the blue citrus thing.  “To old trolls and their sticks,” he said, and touched his glass to Obi-Wan’s.

“And to friends who should damned well still be here to drink with us,” Obi-Wan said, surprising himself with the soft, fierce intensity of his own voice.

Qui-Gon nodded, his expression completely sober.  “Agreed,” he said quietly, and their glasses touched again with a soft _clink_.

The visit with Yoda went surprisingly well, mostly because the ancient Master wisely decided not to badger Qui-Gon into rejoining the Order.  Again.  Obi-Wan was glad; he was one of the few who understood why Qui-Gon had chosen to leave, and though he’d hated the idea of it, hadn’t wanted to lose his Master at _all_ , he had also recognized that there would have been no peace for either of them. 

Qui-Gon may have given into his anger when he’d killed Os Balog, Tahl’s murderer, but the feelings had been of the moment, not a driving force.  His former Master hadn’t Fallen, like Xanatos, but neither had he been able to come to terms with the lapse.  Obi-Wan hoped he would, one day, even if it meant his Master never bore the mantle of Jedi again.  It would take something extraordinary to bring Qui-Gon Jinn back to the Jedi Order, though.  The sooner others realized it, shut up, and left the man alone, the happier everyone would be.

In the middle of sipping Yoda’s dark, bitter tea, Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Indeed,” he said.  Obi-Wan groaned in dismay and tried to figure out how to re-layer his shielding.

“Sorry,” he apologized, when the offensive spot had been corrected to his satisfaction. 

Qui-Gon nodded.  “It’s all right, Obi-Wan.  I’m grateful for your understanding, even though it is far more than I deserve.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.  “That’s ridiculous.”

Yoda glanced back and forth between them, a curious glint in his pale green eyes, but refrained from commenting.

 

*          *          *          *

 

They took care of Micah and Garen’s rooms together the next day, which was both harder and easier than Obi-Wan had thought it would be.  He kept Garen’s freighter jacket, an item that he’d always identified as quintessentially _Garen Muln_.  Once the detritus of school work and daily care and standard Jedi-issue clothing had been dealt with, he made sure each of Garen’s friends had the opportunity to seek out some memento of their own, as well.

Qui-Gon, he knew, was doing the same for Master Micah’s things, though Micah Giett had apparently been a clutter bug of the highest order.  Obi-Wan had Garen’s room cleared (and had stood in the empty space and cried silently, grieving anew) so he moved on to help Qui-Gon.

“Dammit, that thing bit me!” Obi-Wan swore at one point, sticking his finger in his mouth while holding up the knife he’d found by jabbing himself with it.

Qui-Gon made a face at the blade.  “Sacrificial knife, from a culture Micah convinced to stop cutting people’s hearts out to make the crops grow.  I always wondered why he kept it.” 

In the end, it was that same knife that Qui-Gon chose as a memento, which made Obi-Wan raise an eyebrow at the choice.  “It’s…very Micah,” Qui-Gon told him, after he’d found a sheath for the razor-sharp blade.  “I never asked him why he kept it, so it’s something to ponder, something to make me remember my friend.”

Obi-Wan, wearing Garen’s too-large coat, could only nod in silent agreement.

He saw Qui-Gon off that afternoon, taking time from one of his classes (to Master Lenth’s relief) to wait with his former Master until his transport arrived, some distance away from the Temple.  It was bitterly cold, and he was very glad of Garen’s jacket, which had been insulated for the cold of space and seemed far warmer than his cloak.

The transport arrived, and the other passengers awaiting it began to board.  Qui-Gon took a step forward and then stopped, turning back to Obi-Wan.  “I’m given to understand you have a birthday soon,” he said.

“Same time it is every year,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling a little at the old game.  Granted, his birthday was still three months distant, but if Qui-Gon wished to give him something now, Obi-Wan wasn’t going to argue about it.

“Mm.  I’m a bit short of funds this year, so I thought I’d give you this, instead.”  Qui-Gon fished a strip of plas from a flap pocket on the side of his trousers and handed it to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan looked at the string of numbers in confusion.  “What is this?”

“That is the code for a digital mailbox of mine that Dex set up, a long time ago,” Qui-Gon answered.  “It doesn’t cost anything to use it on my end, or yours, and I know you’ve been paying Dex a small fortune to write to me.  It’s…it is something only my closest friends have access to.”

Obi-Wan went from grateful to flabbergasted in the space of four breaths.  “We’re—you mean I’m—” He swallowed hard, blinking against the burning tears that formed in his eyes.

Qui-Gon hugged him, and Obi-Wan practically dove into the older man’s embrace.  There was a hint of their old bond when they touched, and since he was out of words, Obi-Wan sent his gratitude, his amazement, his love for his old teacher, down that faded pathway.

There was a rush of the same in return, and the threads of the training bond strengthened once more.  “Your letters were much appreciated, Obi-Wan, more than I could ever repay.  If you wish to continue sending them, I would be honored.”

“Well, sure.  I’ve got to keep you apprised of Temple gossip _somehow_ ,” Obi-Wan said, grinning up at Qui-Gon when he was released from the larger man’s embrace.  “Be well, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon said softly.

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Remember how I wanted to get off Coruscant more?_

_Yeah._

_What fracking day is it, anyway?  I’ve lost track.  Seriously.  I’d check a chrono, but when I entered this bunk slot I threw the one that was here out into the hallway.  It’s been quite a while since I’ve been this tired, and that includes being chased around the salle by Master Yoda in hyperactive Form VI mode for eight hours._

_I’ve been hearing rumors that you’ve been doing freelance work on the diplomatic circuit—Jedi or not, your reputation definitely precedes you.  It makes Yoda look pleased, like a cat that caught a mouse.  It gives Master Mace fits.  Someone really ought to sedate that man once in awhile.  I know he is the way he is because he works to keep himself and his Haruun Kal lineage in check, but Force, he needs to remember that the rest of us don’t function that way!_

_Met a bunch of Wookiees while the talks for a new colony near the Kashyyyk system were being handled by myself and my Master, who speaks Shyriiwook.  Sounds like a Wookiee who got hold of too much helium when he does it, AND it’s still backwards.  I’m trying to learn it, as well, which made my Wookiee tutor laugh himself sick.  Must be making progress, or Master is catching and my syntax is backwards, too._

_Supposed to be on our way back to Coruscant now, transport due in about three days.  I’ll believe it when I bloody well see it._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Given that my schedule changed rather soon after your visit, I have to wonder if the troll was still worried that I wouldn’t handle this sort of thing well with him being at the helm instead of you._

_I mean, it hasn’t been a problem (I used to think you had your insane moments. HAH!), Yoda is just…well, he’s Yoda.  I guess you could say that keeping me penned up on Coruscant and buried in schoolwork was his way of expressing concern for my mental health._

_Mine is fine, thank you very much, by the way.  I’ve made it a goal to drive Master Lenth into retirement.  Alderaan has one sun, Tatooine has two, Corellia is not a trinary, its entire placement is artificial, and Talus is not a fucking MOON._

_One month until practical exams.  I’ll finish earlier than everyone else in the Temple with a similar aging pattern.  Supposedly I’m doing well, which is good, because between coursework, studying, physical training, the new mission roster, and an assload of meditation, I have forgotten what that “sleep” thing is._

_People keep asking me about my dating life.  WHAT dating life?  Seriously, are they insane?  There may be perks to being Yoda’s Padawan (tea! BTF, TEA!) but extra time is Not One of Them._

_Write back this time.  You’re two months overdue.  I know you claim to be horrible at writing letters (liar) but really, I was being sarcastic when I said just you saying “Hello” would suffice._

_Okay, yes, it was funny._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_I’ve discovered that there is an excuse that the Exams Master will accept for missing your practicals.  Study for a week straight, don’t sleep more than two hours a night, develop a fever of 41C, and fall down in the hallway on the way to the first one.  Almost squashed a Bimmisaari._

_Stop laughing at me.  I know you’re laughing at me.  Yoda probably told you what I said to the Healers:  “I’m only hallucinating a little!”  It’s already made Temple rounds.  The other Padawans think I’m touched in the head.  Yoda must be contagious._

_Oh, gods, I feel fucking awful.  It wasn’t quite the insane schedule I was maintaining that did me in, at least, so I’m not fully responsible for falling on the Bimm.  Apparently some farking nozzlehead skipped through quarantine and visited the Temple carrying a nice bit of the Kaazcint flu on his person.  Asshole.  Took down half the crèche, ten percent of the Padawans, and a good number of in-house Knights and Masters.  The Healers have their hands full with the little ones, who are running around stir-crazy when they’re not fever-glazed.  This place is a madhouse._

_For the love of little gods, TELL THEM TO LET ME OUT OF HERE._

_Desperate,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Practicals are done.  Exam Master glowered at the entire roomful of us (I wasn’t the only one who had a decent excuse!) the whole time tests were being undertaken, as if we had all plotted to fall ill just to piss him off.  No, no, Good Sir.  I don’t piss off the people who handle my grades.  I reserve that for Master Lenth._

_At least, I used to._

_Qui-Gon, I admire the hell out of that man, now, and I’ll tell you why.  He’s fucking Hilarious._

_Apparently, a few years ago, Master Lenth got a bit tired of the utter lack of studying that seemed to be occurring in his classes, so he proposed a bit of a test to the Jedi Council.  He’d take on only the astronomy courses for the higher age groups, and just randomly dump incorrect fact after incorrect fact in with the correct information he’d impart to the classes.  And he did this more and more often, because No One Would Call Him On It_. _Apparently, the numb gits decided to just sit there and believe the man._

_“Well, obviously if the Master says it’s true, then it’s TRUE!”_

_For. Fuck’s. Sake.  Haven’t these people met my Master?  The troll who likes to fuck with people’s minds as often as he can?  Didn’t they Learn?!_

_I was the only person to challenge Master Lenth’s recitations these past few years.  I was also the only person to PASS THE ASTRONOMY FINAL.  Master Lenth delivered the news himself, and then told me all about his little joke._

_The sheer audacity of the man?  I’m in awe.  I must think of an appropriate gift._

_The sheer stupidity of my fellow Padawans?  Worries me to no end._

_Well—Siri listened to me, as did a few others of our friends, but they’re not on schedule for the practicals until next year at the earliest._

_Ah, well.  I’m a free Padawan now, which means I expect Master Yoda to run me into the ground._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_You what?_

_Normally you are far more blunt about things.  Just what are you up to?_

_I’m suspicious, but yes, I will meet you in front of the University’s Southern Arts Wing at the time you’ve asked.  Passed on the invitation to Yoda, who is…cackling.  A lot._

_Concerned for my health and sanity,_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You’re still wearing the coat?”

Obi-Wan turned, a smile lighting up his face the moment he heard the familiar voice.  “Well, it’s starting to actually fit me, and it makes Master Mace’s blood pressure rise every time he sees it, so it can’t be all bad.”

Qui-Gon was within touching distance already, and Obi-Wan hadn’t even noticed his approach.  The man’s skills in that arena had not suffered a bit during his time apart from the Order.  He was also completely stunning, a fact that Obi-Wan noted, panicked about, and quickly buried under the surface layer of his thoughts in the time that it took him to release a single breath.  Qui-Gon’s hair was still pulled back in a single tail, but it was loose, not braided, and he’d shaved off the beard, which was startling, and yet the lack seemed to emphasize the ocean-blue color of his eyes.  The black shirt did wonderful things to the man’s silvering bronze hair, as well.

Qui-Gon reached out to brush a long finger down the lapel of Garen’s old coat; it was starting to show fringe where the leather was getting worn.  Obi-Wan pointedly did not hold his breath, much as it tried to catch in his throat. 

“I have to admit, you do carry the look well, while still maintaining the air of a Jedi,” Qui-Gon said.

“I think once we acquire that, we never lose it.  You’re wearing neither tunic nor lightsaber, and yet I’d still pick you out from the crowd as being a Jedi,” Obi-Wan countered.  Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan was relieved to note, merely inclined his head in acceptance of that fact.  “Now:  Just what are you up to?” he asked.

“Come inside and see,” Qui-Gon replied, holding up his hand in invitation, clearly directing them to the glass entryway for the Arts Wing.  Suspicious, but doubtful things would shoot at him in an _art gallery_ , Obi-Wan preceded Qui-Gon Jinn into the gallery’s foyer, which was brightly lit by the sun shining through the massive skylights overhead.  There were some students milling about the white-walled, marble-floored room, recognizable by their youth and harried expressions, but most beings were heading for the main exhibition hall.  Since Qui-Gon wasn’t providing direction, a habit he and Yoda had raised to perfection, Obi-Wan drifted forward, joining the line of people waiting to enter the hall.  Qui-Gon followed in silence behind him.   

There were no students in this crowd, Obi-Wan realized.  In fact, he was surrounded by beings in much more elegant dress, and starting to recognize faces.  One was the senior Senator of Alderaan, Bail Antilles, flanked by two members of his staff; another was the college’s Dean of Arts, arm-in-arm with his wife, who happened to be Dean of Admissions for the primary campus up north.  _Opening Day for some new artist,_ he surmised, and the announcement placard on the wall proved his point when it came into sight a moment later.

 

_University of Coruscant_

_Southern Campus_

_Infinitum Gallery_

_Welcomes the work of Kai’jin C’rell_

_Watercolor, Illuminations, Brushed Mixed Media_

Obi-Wan turned and raised an eyebrow at his former Master.  “And just what are you up to, Sir C’rell?” he asked.  For the first time in at least two years, he was on the verge of needing to bite his lip to hide a smile.  Kai’jin C’rell had once been Jedi Master Jinn’s favorite alias, though it was seldom-used.  Few beyond Qui-Gon’s former Padawans and certain members of the Council knew that the two men were one and the same.

Qui-Gon smiled at him.  “Nothing involving explosions, I assure you.”

Obi-Wan laughed and turned back to the queue.  “I’m underdressed for such an occasion.”

“You’re a Jedi Padawan, and thus never underdressed,” Qui-Gon corrected him.

“Oh, really? Then what’s your excuse?” Obi-Wan teased.  The man’s brown trousers and knee-high dark leather boots, while a good match to the black shirt, were not exactly formal frippery, either.

“I’m supposedly an artist, and thus am meant to appear eccentric.  And Jonnarri, he’s with me,” Qui-Gon said, when the silver-furred Wookiee taking tickets at the doorway gave Obi-Wan a doubtful look. 

[Couldn’t you have told your guest to brush up a little?] the old Wookiee grumbled, waving them through.

“I think he looks excellent,” Qui-Gon retorted.  Obi-Wan was warmed by both the compliment and the touch of ire in Qui-Gon’s voice as he responded to Jonnarri’s comment.

Two minutes later, he’d forgotten all about the Wookiee.  He was staring, open-mouthed, at the canvases on display.  Obi-Wan hadn’t made art a habit or a hobby, but he’d studied it enough to discern good from bad, and could at least talk about the subject without sounding like a complete idiot. 

This, however, was a bit beyond perused texts, holograms, and a few gallery trips when something particular had caught his eye.  “Wow.”

“I’m encouraged,” Qui-Gon murmured, and that jolted Obi-Wan enough to realize that the man hadn’t left his side. 

“Qui-Gon—Force, Qui-Gon Jinn, when did you do all of this?” he whispered, awed by the sheer quantity of works on display. 

Qui-Gon lifted his shoulder in a partial shrug.  “One here, one there.  I found myself with time on my hands, and with no one to tell me otherwise, resumed an old hobby from my Padawan days.  This is about…three years of work?”

“You did all of this in _three years_?” Obi-Wan hissed back, eyes wide.

Qui-Gon tilted his head.  “Do you think it’s enough?”

“I— fuck!  Enough?  You filled the entire exhibition hall in three years and you’re asking me if it’s enough?”  Obi-Wan shook his head, only then noticing the hesitation lurking behind the smile on the older man’s face.  “Why did you invite me, Qui-Gon?”

“I didn’t actually have much to do with arranging this showing,” Qui-Gon began, and now his voice was marked by hesitation as well.  “They’re all but calling me another Tovan Mare, Obi-Wan—and I had to look up the name to find out what people were talking about!  It all reeks of nonsense.  You, however…” Qui-Gon turned very serious eyes upon him.  “You have always been completely honest with me.  I know I can trust you to tell me if this is shite or not.”

Obi-Wan raised both eyebrows in surprise.  “Well…  I…”  He bit his lip.  “All right.  Give me a few hours.”

Qui-Gon once again held up his hand in invitation, which made Obi-Wan’s lips quirk in a half-smile as he walked forward, weaving his way through babbling patrons to discover just what, exactly, Kai’jin C’rell had to offer the artistic world. 

Within moments, he was lost.  C’rell might have been the name residing on the gallery placard, but what Obi-Wan saw was so utterly Qui-Gon that it damn-near took his breath away.  If he had ever wondered about how the other man viewed the world, he had his answer.  Sadness and joy, happiness, anger—things that lurked beneath years of Jedi serenity, speaking of the life his former Master had lived, and the meaning he had taken from it all.

He found Master Yoda standing in front of one of the canvases, a sad smile on his ancient face.  Obi-Wan looked at the painting; it was nothing more than black lines on white, but the broad paint strokes had perfectly captured the joy on a boy’s face as he built a structure with nothing more than sticks.  It was only when he studied the picture closely that Obi-Wan realized the boy wasn’t using his hands.

“That’s Master Micah, isn’t it?” he asked Yoda.

His Master nodded solemnly.  “Indeed it is.  Many years ago, that was.”  He paused.  “Want this for the Temple, I do.  A better memorial, this is, than another metal head.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  His Master hated the too-solemn sculptures of Jedi that lined the Library, and hated even more that his own head was among them.  “I think it would look great in the creche’s main hall.”  Yoda grunted at him, but since the idea wasn’t rejected outright, Obi-Wan knew the old Master was considering his suggestion.

The portrait he found of Garen was so damned lifelike that Obi-Wan did a double-take, certain for a moment that he must be seeing a ghost.  Several works away, he found Tahl, captured in repose.  Her face was scrunched up in her old thoughtful-amused expression while she ran a brush through her long hair.  The paint on the canvas had been applied so thick it had become a textural element, and Obi-Wan had to wrap his hands together to keep from reaching out to touch it. 

What he did _not_ expect to see was anything bearing his own face, and at first he dismissed the impressionistic painting’s resemblance.  It was a vibrant work of many colors, and only after seeing the title was his own name could he believe the epic figure wielding a lightsaber was himself.

“Good likeness, I think,” said the man beside him, and Obi-Wan glanced over to realize he stood next to the Supreme Chancellor.

“Chancellor Valorum,” Obi-Wan greeted him, bowing in place.  “I didn’t realize you would be here.”

“Part of my many tasks involves attending the opening of every new museum showing or gallery display on Coruscant,” Finis Valorum replied.  “However, being that this was the work of a friend, I protested less than I might normally have to my aides,” he said with a faint smile.

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Obi-Wan said, smiling in return.  He had begun to work with Valorum under Qui-Gon’s tutelage, and with his class work over, Yoda had assigned him as the go-between for Council and Chancellor when they were on-planet.  The job was interesting, to say the least.  Valorum had proven that under his traditional scowl, he had a positively wicked sense of humor.  “If I see your aides, I will tell them I haven’t seen you.”

“Bless you, Obi-Wan.  I shall make my escape before they catch up, then.”  Valorum laid a brief hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder before he walked off, where he was promptly accosted by three Senators and the museum director.  Only Obi-Wan noticed the very quiet sigh that the Chancellor emitted when confronted. 

He found Qui-Gon entangled in his own Senatorial mess, engaged as he was with conversation with Senators from Naboo, Corellia, Dantooine, and Chandrila.  The latter three were almost drowning each other out as they spoke, completely unaware of the polite yet monosyllabic responses their captive was offering in response.  Only Palpatine of Naboo seemed above the prattle, but Obi-Wan was well aware that the man could spew political claptrap with the best of them.

Deciding that Qui-Gon needed rescuing, Obi-Wan put on his Busy Padawan persona and strode up to the group, dropping into a short bow.  “Excuse me, Senators.  Sir C’rell, the Supreme Chancellor has requested the honor of your presence.”

“Ah.  Gentlemen, Lady, I’m afraid I must depart, then.  Can’t keep His Excellency waiting.  Thank you for the…stimulating conversation,” Qui-Gon said, and when Obi-Wan turned to depart, Qui-Gon was practically on his heels.  “Is he really?” Qui-Gon whispered the moment they were out of earshot.

Obi-Wan grinned.  “No, he’s busy trying to hide from his _own_ aides.  But you looked like you were about ready to find something to hang yourself with.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, that was quite underhanded of you.”  Qui-Gon chuckled.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  Obi-Wan gave the Wookiee at the gallery entrance a serene smile, getting a growl in return.

“Where are we going instead, then?”

“Someplace that isn’t pretentious in the slightest.  Oh, and Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan paused in the outer doorway, which made Qui-Gon glance down in momentary confusion.  “They’re not shite.”

The wide, delighted smile that spread across Qui-Gon’s face warmed Obi-Wan to his toes.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan laughed at Qui-Gon’s relieved sigh when the aircab dropped them at Dex’s Diner.  Dex welcomed them both with hugs that tested Obi-Wan’s ability to breathe, seated them at a table far from the bustle of the lunch rush, and brought them food cooked with enough grease to stun a Bantha. 

Dex brought out an ale for Qui-Gon, then looked at Obi-Wan.  “Not old enough.  Sorry, Kid.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.  “Seventeen is legal, Dex.”

The Besalisk rolled his eyes.  “Ya ain’t seventeen Standard yet.”

“Am too.”

“Is so,” Qui-Gon put in.

Dex sighed.  “They grow up too damn fast,” he said, and put the second bottle he’d kept hidden behind his back down on the table.

By the time the food was gone, they were each on a third ale, and Qui-Gon was explaining how he’d wound up with a gallery opening on Coruscant.  “I was on Naboo—nice planet,” he added.  “Their current king is a bit of a dunderhead, but the citizens are excellent.  Very good mediators.  They train their children in diplomacy young, so most of them are wordsmiths by the time puberty hits.”

“Challenging, then?” Obi-Wan teased.

“It made for a nice change,” Qui-Gon admitted.  “There’s an eight year-old named Padmé in with the teenagers that can already talk rings around the lot of them.  They’re discussing early advancement for her.  Anyway—I was sketching out in the royal garden within the Palace walls.  There’s a giant tree there, an ancient old thing, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity.” 

Obi-Wan nodded.  He’d seen the tree in the gallery, enlarged and finished as an illuminary that had astonished everyone, Obi-Wan included.  Qui-Gon smiled and continued.  “When I looked up, I realized that half of the palace staff had come to watch.  One of them—ah…”  Qui-Gon’s brow furrowed.  “What was his name—Zapalo!” he said, snapping his fingers when the memory came.  “Suggested that if I had more sketches like that one to offer, I was more than welcome to display them in Theed’s museum.  As far as I was concerned at the time, it was a safe place to deposit everything I’d been working on.  I’ve been seeing conflict more and more often Mid-Rim of late,” he said, a pensive note entering his voice.

“We’ve been hearing that, too, and there’s true conflict out on the Outer Rim.  I think it’s going to be a busy year,” Obi-Wan said.

“Quite likely,” Qui-Gon agreed, taking a sip of ale.  “So, I have my work in their museum about a day and a half before I have two agents threatening to duel each other to have the honor of “representing” me.  I decided to choose the agent who was taking bets on which duelist would stab themselves first,” he said, grinning.

Obi-Wan laughed.  “You _would_.  But it seems to have been a good choice.”

Qui-Gon shrugged.  “I didn’t even know what the hell to _do_ with an agent, Obi-Wan.  Fortunately, Bluss is a sensible man, and didn’t mind all of my unusual requests:  assumed name, no mention of my former Temple association, the paintings I refuse to sell…”

“Tahl,” Obi-Wan murmured.

Qui-Gon inclined his head in agreement.  “Tahl, and Micah.  And yours,” he added.

Obi-Wan felt his cheeks redden.  “Ah.  Yes.  That one was…bewildering.”

“Why?”

Obi-Wan averted his eyes, not sure he could answer while pinned by that blue gaze.  He had definitely had enough alcohol for the day.  “Because I don’t look like that.”

“That depends on your point of view, I suppose,” Qui-Gon said, but when Obi-Wan turned to face him once more, Qui-Gon was ordering another round.  If there had been anything to learn in his eyes, it was gone by the time Dex arrived with more ale.

Obi-Wan promptly discarded the notion of curbing his intake and gladly took the bottle Dex offered.

 

*          *          *          *

           

It was late by the time he saw Qui-Gon to a landing platform to wait for aircabs, one for Qui-Gon and one for Obi-Wan to take back to the Temple for the evening.  Master Yoda had given him the day off, so losing so much of his time to conversation was of no consequence.  “What do you have planned tomorrow?”

Qui-Gon sighed.  “Unfortunately, leaving Coruscant.  I’d already pledged my time to a Selonian delegation before the gallery showing was arranged.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, trying not to sound too disappointed.  Letters were nice, but being in Qui-Gon Jinn’s company was infinitely better.  “Be careful, then.”  The Corellian system, despite its Mid-Rim location, tended to be a law onto itself—but no one had expected Yinchorr, Leveeth, or Calais, either.

“I expect the worst part of my days to involve eating raw seafood,” Qui-Gon replied, smiling.  “But I will be wary, as always, Obi-Wan.”

Maybe it was the alcohol.  Or perhaps he had simply grown more confident in the intervening years since his apprenticeship to the man had ended.  Or, maybe, it was the painting bearing his name.  Either way, Obi-Wan gave himself no time to talk himself out of it.

Obi-Wan took the two steps necessary to come within Qui-Gon’s personal space, close enough to feel the warmth of Qui-Gon’s body yet not quite touching…and kissed him.

He dared to look up; Qui-Gon’s blue eyes flashed in surprise.  _Oh, shit,_ Obi-Wan thought, and an apology was on his lips before his head was seized with both hands and he was being very thoroughly kissed in return.  Warm palms on his cheeks, fingers brushing his ears and hair, lips moving against his own…  Obi-Wan closed his eyes and moaned in bliss.

Qui-Gon stepped back, dropping his hands, a rueful expression on his face.  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No.  I mean yes!  Yes, you should have,” Obi-Wan corrected himself, rubbing the back of his head self-consciously.

“You’re drunk,” Qui-Gon pointed out.

“I am not.  Well.  Only a little!  And so are you,” Obi-Wan retorted.  “That doesn’t mean I haven’t been— I mean—”

Qui-Gon put a finger on Obi-Wan’s lips, effectively shushing him.  “Confess nothing now, when both of us would fail a sobriety test.  If you still feel this way in a few days, tell me.”  He sighed again.  “Oh, Force, I’m too old for this.”

Obi-Wan coughed, directing his gaze upward while discreetly pointing down.  “I beg to differ.”  He then had the delight of watching Qui-Gon Jinn blush.

“You—” Whatever Qui-Gon would have said was lost to the roar of the first aircab arriving.  The driver had no sooner touched down than he began waving impatiently for his fare.  “Dammit.  Obi-Wan…”

“Go,” Obi-Wan said, smiling.  He was used to the Universe having bad timing.  “You’ll hear from me in a few days.”

Qui-Gon smiled back.  “I hope so.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_I told you so.  I even waited three days, so you could be as distant as one could be after turning down sex with a hot red-head._

_Siri’s words, not mine.  She is rather miffed on my behalf, which is a compliment?  I think?_

_I avow to the fact that I am stone-cold sober.  And cold.  Shipped out to Forsythe yesterday, and the heater in our given quarters has decided it doesn’t like us.  I don’t mind, really, but Master Yoda is sleeping in the engine room to keep warm.  Some days I think he feels his age more than others._

_Digressing, sorry.  What I mean to say is that I am completely self-aware and thus can say with all certainty that I enjoy our time together, and would like to continue to spend more time together in a way that involves building a relationship._

_Plainspeak:  If you’re willing, there is sex in our future.  The Tree Stump still exists!  And he misses you._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Pfft.  Why would I be worried about a difference in our ages?  This entire fucking settlement is crumbling and a building could fall on me tomorrow, and then your concerns about the four decades that lie between us would be quite moot, wouldn’t they?_

_I’m a Jedi, and plan to remain such, and thus my life expectancy could be anywhere from thirty seconds from now to eighty years into the future.  We just Don’t Know.  Sometimes the Force gives us little hints, but the future is always changing (I refuse to quote the Troll today) and who the hell knows what may happen tomorrow?  I’d like to enjoy today for what it is, and you for Who You Are, rather than get caught up in a few ultimately meaningless differences._

_I will say this, if it calms your concerns:  I value your friendship above all else.  Yes, I’m interested and would love to pursue you to the best of my ability, but my world won’t shatter if you decide not to try for a relationship with the young Padawan.  Believe me, I am well aware of the fact that you could have your pick of half of the galaxy if you wished._

_Yours, whether you like it or not,_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Greeble fwoop whibble zoop._

_Reduced to Incoherency,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Happy Birthday to me.  I am now 18 Standard and Dex sent me alcoholic pastry as a gift.  Alcoholic.  Pastry.  BTF, that man is a genius.  Yes, this time I am a touch inebriated as I write, but by the gods, who in his right mind would turn THIS down?_

_Your last letter was direct.  And wonderful.  And, despite my non-stop letter blither over the past few years, I have no idea how I could ever match such a simple document.  You astound me, as you always have, with your ability to create masterpieces from a few grains of sand.  I mean this figuratively; though, knowing you, I imagine chemistry may join artistry and suddenly the Infinitum Gallery has a new exhibit._

_You ask me to say what it is I find so pleasing about your appearance?  Force, Qui-Gon—where would I begin?  The entirety of you is pleasing!_

_I love your eyes.  They remind me of an endless warm sea, capable of holding peaceful calm and storming rage.  Yet, no matter the season of the ocean, they are always beautiful, always full of the same life as the water whose color they mimic._

_Long before there were thoughts in my head about relationships of any sort, I used to love to watch you in the sale—when you weren’t kicking my ass, at least.  I could stare at you as you performed katas for hours, days, weeks.  Didn’t care how much time passed.  When you had a lightsaber in your hands (and people were NOT shooting at us) you were grace and power wrapped together, and it was awe-inspiring._

_I miss watching you dance._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

Most of those in Treasure Ship Row ignored the lanky young man with the lump on his back.  As far as the locals and the shoppers were concerned, there wasn’t a thing unusual about him.  Just another beggar, perhaps, or a deformed member of the aristocracy of Coronet City seeking illicit substances.  Of course, if they had looked closer, they might have noticed that the lump had long, pointed green ears, and talked in a syntax that could give any grammarian a fit.

“I think that one was the most interesting yet, Master,” Obi-Wan murmured, trying not to grin as he passed a stall lorded over by a woman whose hips were about as wide as he was tall, her voice just as burly as her body.  “According to Madam-Sells-The-Spirits, I must be some wayward orphan, abandoned by my parents due to this great monstrous growth on my back.  The horror, I say.”

Yoda chuckled, the sound vibrating soothingly against his right ear.  “Saw my eyes, she did.  Much more interesting, I am, than anything she has seen in a week.  Business, slow it has been.”

“Mm.”  Obi-Wan nodded faintly in agreement; Treasure Ship Row, Coronet City’s most diverse marketplace, was far more empty than it ever should have been.  Granted, he still had to occasionally shove people out of his way with a neatly placed elbow, but the first time he had been here at age fourteen, Qui-Gon had almost needed to Force-manipulate their way through the massive crowds.  There had hardly been room to plant his feet.  He had walked practically on top of his Master’s ankles to avoid being tread upon.

“Were the Blue Sector markets like this?” Obi-Wan asked, pretending to be engaged in the study of a bag of imported tabac.  He loved the scents of the various smoking plants as long as they weren’t currently on fire.  Smoking was about as foreign an idea to him as body-hair removal was to a Wookiee.

“More crowded, Blue Sector was,” Yoda said, tightening his grip on Obi-Wan’s shoulder as a group of noisy sailors, just off of CorSec duty, bumped into them before running to catch up with their inebriated friends.  “But enough commerce, there was not.  Talked to an off-duty controller, I did.  Traffic for the system is slower, now.  Not for decades has business been this light in the Corellian system.”

“The Chancellor told those idiots that the latest tax hikes were going to do more harm than good.”  Obi-Wan moved on from the tabac stalls, still hoping to find a dealer in the Row who sold brandy at local prices, instead of the heavily taxed bottles that were made available for tourists.  “If Corellia’s trade has slowed down this much, I’d hate to see the damage on other planets in the region.”

“Far worse, I’m afraid,” he heard next to his left ear, a low rumble of sound that sent shocked, delighted shivers right down his spine.

He turned; Yoda snorted in amused disbelief.  “Qui-Gon Jinn,” his Master grumbled.  “Trouble you are making, hmm?”

Qui-Gon’s features were shadowed by the hood of the cloak he’d pulled low over his face, but Obi-Wan could still see the innocent look the man was feigning.  “Master of my Master, what makes you think I’m causing trouble?”

“Trouble, you _are,_ ” Yoda retorted, but Obi-Wan could feel his Master’s emotions, and recognized the teasing for what it was.  “I am wondering: why are you here?”

“From what I overheard, a reason similar to yours,” Qui-Gon replied, falling into step with Obi-Wan as they moved on through the marketplace.  “Private consultation from Vaspathian Corporate, wanting to get a clearer picture of why their sales are plummeting.  They’re not going to be happy when I tell them that they’re losing a great portion of their merchandise to the black market.”

“I think the black market is the _only_ market with growth potential right now,” Obi-Wan observed, sidestepping out of the path of a Gamorrean so he wouldn’t be mowed over.  “Everything I’ve seen is pointing to a massive economic downturn in Republic space.  If not this year, then the next.”

“Good, that is _not_ ,” Yoda muttered, echoing aloud what they were all thinking.

“This is going to sound stupid, but do you think this mess could be artificially created?” Obi-Wan asked, as they stepped across the boundaries of the Row back into Blue Sector.  He and Yoda had taken rooms here, the better to stay unnoticed.  Plus, as he’d learned years ago, the food was cheaper, and better, than anywhere else in the city.  Pirates, rogues, and smugglers liked to eat well, and drink better. 

“I could understand one sector having issues, or even three or four.  But lately, it sounds like everyone is suffering from increased taxation, or failed trade negotiations, lost shipments, corporate flare-ups…”

“That would be a massive undertaking,” Qui-Gon said, and Yoda hummed a note under his breath.  Neither response was reassuring in the slightest to Obi-Wan, who’d half-expected the notion to be dismissed out of hand. 

The three of them had dinner together at the inn Obi-Wan and Yoda had chosen.  Obi-Wan was amused but not very surprised to discover that he and Yoda had rooms across the street from the place where Qui-Gon had chosen to stay.  They ate in a corner booth, as far as possible from most of the evening rabble, taking advantage of the horrible lighting to shed cloaks and rely on darkness to help conceal their features.  Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had little to worry about in that regard, but Yoda was famous galaxy-wide and hated it, and preferred to travel incognito whenever he could.

The ale was better than anything Dex could afford to import.  Obi-Wan was pleasantly warm but far from relaxed even after the second bottle, too conscious of the heat of Qui-Gon’s body just inches from his own.  He used his training to best effect, keeping his nerves from his voice and his body as he, Yoda, and Qui-Gon talked through the dinner rush and into the evening bar crawl.  Most of it centered around the observations Obi-Wan and Yoda had come to make about the Republic’s economic woes, but more and more often the conversation veered into stories about friends and missions.  At one point, Obi-Wan found himself absolutely tongue-tied when he realized that the extra warmth on the top of his thigh was Qui-Gon’s hand.

At last, Yoda yawned, retrieved his cloak, and hopped down from the booth.  “Too old I am for such late nights,” he said, his eyes sparkling, a look that had always spoken of merciless humor in the past.  “Expect to see you in our room tonight, I do not,” the old Master declared.

All of the Jedi training in the _galaxy_ was not enough to keep the blush from Obi-Wan’s cheeks.  “Master, that was about as subtle as a glass of ice water to the face.”

“Subtle?  What do you two know of subtle?” Yoda cackled.  “Mooning at each other all night, you have been!”

To Obi-Wan’s surprise, Qui-Gon lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hand.  “Master Yoda, you are an incalculably evil being.”

Yoda smiled.  “Expect you I do at our transport in the morning, Padawan,” he instructed, and hobbled off, still laughing under his breath.

Obi-Wan was both elated and baffled by Qui-Gon’s reaction.  The man was nervous?  Qui-Gon Jinn?  What _for?_

“Because, as you so skillfully wrote,” Qui-Gon murmured in his ear, “you _also_ could have your pick of half the galaxy, if you wished.”

Obi-Wan thought of many things to say in response to that, chief among them “That’s stupid” and “Really?” but chose something far safer.  “Do you want to get out of here?”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Their hands found each other as they left the inn’s dining room, fingers twined together, yet hidden by the sleeves of their cloaks.  Obi-Wan swallowed; despite his forwardness, both on a Coruscant landing platform and in his letters, he was _horribly_ nervous. 

“Me, too,” Qui-Gon confided, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile.

“Do you know, I can’t shield you out completely?  You can always hear my surface thoughts if you’re close by,” Obi-Wan said.  He’d worked for months to improve, only to discover that his shielding wasn’t really the problem at all.  There was no bond between himself and Qui-Gon that he or Yoda could see, beyond the old threads of the training bond, and yet…

“I’m surprised, then, that you don’t also hear me,” Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan felt his heart flutter when he realized they had already made it into the inn across the street, and were striding down a long corridor that undoubtedly led to Qui-Gon’s room.  “I can,” he admitted.  “But you tend to be far more quiet than I am, and I try not to listen if I can help it.”

“I don’t mind,” Qui-Gon said, pausing for a moment and glancing down at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “I’m just trying to be polite.  Besides, I’m loud enough for both of us.”

He took in Qui-Gon’s sudden, heated grin, and realized far too late what he had said.  “Fuck.”

“We’ll see,” Qui-Gon replied serenely, earning a scowl from Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon’s room was small and quiet, as unobtrusive as the man himself could be, when he wished.  Obi-Wan shed his cloak and glanced around as he hung it on a hook mounted near the door.  The bed was the most prominent feature, probably meant for a Wookiee.  Qui-Gon would have chosen it, no doubt, out of frustration for the many, many times when ships’ berths were simply not long enough to deal with a human of his height. 

Through a half-open door, Obi-Wan could see a small ’fresher in the corner of the room, with a lit candle casting light across bare white tile, giving the small space a sense of gentle warmth.  Another candle, encased in a massive votive to keep it from being a fire hazard, was on the small nightstand next to the bed.

Qui-Gon, already stripped of his cloak and boots, had paused by the candle.  He brushed the wick with a finger and a flame came into being at his touch.  Obi-Wan stared at the tableau; Qui-Gon was in a simple gray shirt and a pair of brown trousers.  His hair fell in unbound waves down his back, his feet were bare, and no lightsaber hung at his side, but in that moment he was the very epitome of a Jedi Master.

“And yet you fuss about a lack of likeness in the image I created of you,” Qui-Gon murmured.  When he turned to look at Obi-Wan, his eyes reflected the old sadness, an emotion Obi-Wan had last seen when Qui-Gon had severed his ties to the Order in front of the Council.  “I’m not…I don’t think I’m capable of living up to such a standard.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “Affiliations generally become meaningless with time.  Just because you’re not aligned with the Order doesn’t mean you’ve stopped being a Jedi.”  He stepped closer; this dance he could do, this reassurance.  He had been support and strength when Qui-Gon felt his own strength was gone, and it was no hardship.

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “I’m just a man who knows his limitations.”

“And wouldn’t you say such a man is, ultimately, the wisest of all?” Obi-Wan countered, reaching out to take Qui-Gon’s hand.  The older man’s fingers were trembling, much like his own.

“You—I—Dammit!” Qui-Gon swore, chuckling.  “What a fine Knight you’re going to be.”

“Eventually,” Obi-Wan agreed.  “But in the meantime, I’m just a man who wants you.”

A beautiful, lopsided smile appeared on Qui-Gon’s face.  “It is also a wise man who knows what he wants.”

“Yep,” Obi-Wan said, and then there was no space at all between them, and their lips met in a kiss.  It had less desperate intensity than their kiss on the landing platform, and yet it was so much more.  Qui-Gon’s hands were resting on either side of his neck, his fingertips creating gentle, fluttering touches on Obi-Wan’s nape.  He sighed into Qui-Gon’s mouth, his hands daring to do their own exploring, and he laid his hands flat against Qui-Gon’s chest, feeling solid muscle beneath his palms. 

“So confident, and yet so nervous,” Qui-Gon said, when the kiss broke.  “You’re shaking.”

Obi-Wan grinned.  “So are you.”

Even in the soft light of one lamp and the candles, Obi-Wan could see the faint blush on Qui-Gon’s cheeks.  “Out of practice, perhaps?” he seemed to be musing.  “I haven’t been with anyone in—great Force, twenty years?”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked, feeling honored, wondering what it was he’d done to somehow overcome twenty-odd years of celibacy.

Qui-Gon smiled and kissed him again, then playfully nipped the tip of Obi-Wan’s nose.  “I’m very particular.  What’s your excuse, k’sharra?”

“Oh, uh…”  Now it was his turn for burning cheeks.  “I’ve only ever been with Siri, the time that I wrote you of.”  Obi-Wan filed the strange word away in his head for later review, not willing to break the moment for a lesson in languages.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened.  “No one else?” he rumbled softly.  “I had always surmised that after Tachi, you were merely being discreet.”

“Oh, Force no.  You’d probably have heard far too much detail about it,” Obi-Wan said, laughing.  His breath hitched when one of Qui-Gon’s hands began stroking up and down his back, leaving trails of fire in its wake even through his tunics.  “Offers, yes.  Offers that I wanted to accept…”  He shook his head.  “I suppose I am also particular.”

“Then we are well-matched, indeed.”  Qui-Gon smiled.  “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Obi-Wan said immediately, feeling his heart pound in anticipation, fed by the gleaming, burning desire that he could see in Qui-Gon’s eyes.

“Hold still, then.  And do please remember to breathe,” Qui-Gon teased, and Obi-Wan dutifully took another breath, realizing as he did so that he had, indeed, been neglecting that most necessary thing. 

Of course, Qui-Gon followed that instruction by unbuckling Obi-Wan’s belt, letting it thump to the floor a few feet away.  After that, Qui-Gon’s long, deft fingers began untangling the tight wrap of his sash, and Obi-Wan was breathing in fits and starts as hands moved along his midsection.

When those lovely fingers inadvertently brushed his erect cock, the sensation was so electric that he couldn’t stop the whimper that emerged from his throat.  The long sash fell to the floor in a pool of soft white cloth.

“So close already?” Qui-Gon whispered, his breath stirring the hairs on the side of Obi-Wan’s neck.  He wasn’t touching Obi-Wan, just hovering, and the feel of him, the scent of him, was making everything south of his navel tingle in chaotic waves of excitement. 

“Qui-Gon Jinn I’m eighteen Standard and you could _breathe_ on it and I’d come,” Obi-Wan blurted in a rush.  When he heard an evil-sounding chuckle in response, he closed his eyes and shuddered.  “Oh, gods.”

“Ah, to be _that_ young again,” Qui-Gon said, his lips just grazing Obi-Wan’s ear as he spoke, each faint touch sending further tingles along his taut nerves.  “What do you want, Obi-Wan?”

“You,” Obi-Wan managed to say, the word barely a gasp.  “Please, just you.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon whispered in agreement.  This time, the lips teasing his ear became gentle pressure, tracing along and down, before he drew the lobe of Obi-Wan’s ear into his mouth and sucked.

The jolt went straight to his toes, and he could have sworn every single one of them dislocated immediately.  “OH, gods—”

The warmth on his ear vanished just before his lips were captured again in a searing, bruising kiss.  Obi-Wan returned it just as deeply, aware that he was making desperate, needy sounds and that Qui-Gon was making a noise that could’ve been a growl or a purr.   

He was suddenly in Qui-Gon’s strong embrace, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, and there was an answering, insistent hardness against his belly that made him gasp into Qui-Gon’s mouth.  He wrapped his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck and his legs around the other man’s waist, trying to get closer, wanting to thrust against that solid, intoxicating warmth.  His ragged breaths became a long groan as his ass was grabbed by Qui-Gon’s large hands, lifting him higher.  They pressed their bodies together as close as skin and clothing would allow.  Their minds echoed the need for closeness, and Obi-Wan gasped in astonishment as their thoughts brushed, surface layers entwining in beautiful configurations that he could see in his mind.

There was a moment of swaying, disjointed motion and then his back was against a wall.  Qui-Gon pinned him in place, nuzzling his throat, nipping with gentle teeth, laving the bites with his tongue.  Obi-Wan thrust upward, the motion awkward, trapped as he was between two immoveable objects.  He felt like he was on fire, riding just on the edge and yet he couldn’t, couldn’t…  “Oh, gods—Force, Qui-Gon, _please_ —” 

Then one of those beloved, large hands found his cock, palming him through his leggings, and just the hard press of touch was enough.  He let go, shuddering uncontrollably as he thrust blindly against that heat, and when he came it was like a nova sunburst.  He voiced a cry somewhere between a moan and a wail as sparks danced across his vision, aware that Qui-Gon had thrust against him only once more before he came as well, and in his low, thready moan was Obi-Wan’s name.

Obi-Wan panted for breath, aware that Qui-Gon, with his face buried against Obi-Wan’s neck, was doing the same.  There was a huge grin on his face and his eyes felt runny.  “Is…that what you had in mind…when you asked me to trust you?”

Qui-Gon chuckled, the sound vibrating against his skin.  “Not exactly.”  He lifted his head, and there was an answering smile on his face, and his blue eyes were practically glowing in the dim light.  “You are…inspiring.”

“You mean noisy,” Obi-Wan countered.

Qui-Gon kissed him, and it was long, slow, and languid, yet still enough for Obi-Wan’s cock to twitch with potentially renewed interest.  “Again: inspiring,” he said.

They slowly pried themselves apart from each other, and Obi-Wan took in his tunic front and pants, both liberally stained, before shrugging.  “Get naked,” he advised Qui-Gon, pulling his tunics up over his head .

“Joyfully, but why?” Qui-Gon asked, his fingers working at undoing the short row of buttons at his collar.

“Because I’ve got to wash the _only clothes I have on this planet_ so I look somewhat respectable when I rejoin Master Yoda in the morning,” Obi-Wan said, and realized he was still grinning like an overly pleased lunatic.  “And if I’m going to be naked, then so are you.”

“And to think I once had concerns that you might be too deferential in any potential relationship between us,” Qui-Gon said lightly, removing his shirt.  “You’re bossy.”

“Naked!” Obi-Wan repeated, as he ducked into the ’fresher.

After his clothes were hung to dry, they lay down together on the bed, foregoing the sheets.  He’d seen Qui-Gon naked before, during showers or on missions where bathing and changing facilities were lacking, but it had been years, and Obi-Wan wasted no time in re-familiarizing himself with the hard planes of Qui-Gon’s body.

Qui-Gon was smiling as he ran his fingers through the wiry, dark red hair on Obi-Wan’s chest.  “You’ve gotten quite a bit furrier over the years.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were half-closed; he’d no idea that the sensation of someone just _playing_ with the hair on his body could be so damned pleasurable.  “Yoda makes Wookiee cracks.  Keep telling him I’m not that tall, and he’s got enough hair in his ears to make his own damn Wookiee, anyway.”

Qui-Gon laughed.  “Or an Ewok, at the very least.”  His gaze turned sober, though he did not stop touching Obi-Wan.  “Did you feel that, earlier?”

Obi-Wan didn’t pretend not to understand the question.  “Yeah.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Never felt anything like it, either.”  To his inner eye, the threads were no longer visible, and yet he still felt connected to Qui-Gon.  No bond, no traditional link existed.  “I don’t understand it.”

“Nor I,” Qui-Gon murmured, a hint of a smile on his face.  “But I’m not complaining,” he said, and when their lips came together again, Obi-Wan realized he didn’t care, either.  It was what it was, and in the moment, touching, being touched by Qui-Gon Jinn, was _far_ more interesting.

At least until the klaxon sounded.

Qui-Gon jerked his head up, and Obi-Wan’s jangled nerves went on high-alert in reaction just to the damned interruptive sound.  “What’s wrong?”

“Shite.  Fuck.  Damn bureaucratic bleeding _hells_ ,” Qui-Gon swore, getting out of bed and holding out his hand to Obi-Wan, who took it gladly as he levered himself up.  “They’re raiding Blue Sector.”

“Raiding?” Obi-Wan found his mouth hanging open, and then swore and starting for the ‘fresher.  “CorSec’s not supposed to raid for another three damn days!” he yelled, using his irritation with Corellian Sector Authority to mask the fact that putting on ice-cold, wet clothing was one of his least favorite things in the universe. 

“Apparently, they changed their minds,” Qui-Gon said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt back on.  “It wouldn’t do either of us any good to be caught here.”

“Oh, I can just see the tabloids running with that one,” Obi-Wan drawled, and sent a tentative query down the training bond he shared with Yoda.  What came back left him stunned into complete stillness for a moment.  Yoda, it seemed, had been rather enjoying his slumber before its untimely interruption. 

“I just learned a lot of new words,” he whispered. 

Qui-Gon appeared in the ’fresher doorway, bearing both their cloaks over one arm and Obi-Wan’s boots in his other hand.  “Unsuitable for repetition, no doubt.  Boots, quickly.  They move fast once the warning klaxon sounds.”

 _Get caught you must not,_ Yoda sent as Obi-Wan shoved his feet into his boots as fast as he could without falling over.  _Wrong, this feels.  Manipulated, perhaps, hmm?_

 _Master, I have no idea, but CorSec owes me a hot bath at the_ very _least_ , Obi-Wan grumbled back, following Qui-Gon out the door.  There were already shouts from the front of the inn.  “Window, Qui?”

Qui-Gon grinned back at him.  “And up, I think.  The streets below are a bit too packed for a quick escape.”

Obi-Wan snorted in amusement, shrugging into his cloak as Qui-Gon used his elbow to break out the closest window, sending shards of glass raining into the alley.  “Just like old times.”

“Not quite,” Qui-Gon said, already halfway outside.  “We’re not being shot at yet.”

Obi-Wan ducked as the first volley of blaster fire, a stun beam from a CorSec agent, went sizzling through his hair.  “You should’ve been a prophet!” he yelled, diving forward.  Qui-Gon moved with lightning speed, up and outside the casement and in place to grab Obi-Wan’s hand as Obi-Wan dove through the broken window frame.  Qui-Gon swung him up and over; Obi-Wan used the Force to enhance the maneuver, landing on the rooftop with a muted thump some three stories above where they’d started.  Qui-Gon was beside him a moment later, and before Obi-Wan realized his intent, he was grabbed and thoroughly kissed. 

“Best date I’ve ever had,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes dancing with pure mischief.

“Yoda was right—you _are_ trouble,” Obi-Wan retorted, but he couldn’t stop smiling.  Qui-Gon’s joy was infectious.  “We should get out of this sector before we get arrested.”        

“Well, it has been a long time since I’ve made out with anyone in a prison cell,” Qui-Gon said, his expression thoughtful.     

“NO,” Obi-Wan replied, trying and failing to keep his laughter from bubbling out.  “Let’s just go, really.  Or you can explain to Yoda why he’s bailing us out of jail.”

Qui-Gon shuddered.  “I think I’d rather be boiled in oil.  We’ll head for that transmission tower.  There’s a shortcut into the next sector from there.”

As he followed in the larger man’s footsteps, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile.  Qui-Gon was right; as dates went, this one had been superb—and really, running for their lives seemed to fit the theme.  They were Jedi, after all.

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Force, what a long, strange day it’s been.  I’m glad you’re safely off-planet, though I already miss you.  By all the little gods, I can still smell you, and it’s been a challenge to keep that from distracting me from being a good senior Jedi Padawan and helping my Master to flay answers out of CorSec._

_The first nonsense that we got was that it was an “unscheduled” raid.  Right.  My ass, it was.  There was a reason why we collected information on CorSec raiding times for all the sectors over the past few months.  The Council as well as the Senate subcommittee (I’d give you their name, but it’s changed three times in a month and they might not even be called that anymore) wanted unbiased reports on trade and the local economy.  Incognito gets more answers, always._

_By the time we got to someone who was willing to give Master Yoda answers, it was late afternoon, long after you’d departed.  I was grumpy, tired, and my clothes were_ still _wet._  

_Yoda was in a foul temper, especially as certain CorSec agents were pretending they had no idea who he was.  Who the hell in this Republic doesn’t know who Master Yoda is, I ask you?_

_So:  It was an anonymous tip.  An anonymous tip that said if CorSec raided Blue Sector last night, the results would be rewarding both for the agency and the Republic in general._

_Funny that they didn’t find anything beyond Blue Sector’s usually motley assortment of smugglers and local felons.  Nothing unusual at all, as long as you discount the trio of Jedi they didn’t find._

_Force’s sake.  Written down, that seems like a mental jump of paranoid delusion, but Master agrees with me.  Someone wanted to catch a Jedi in Blue Sector.  What the charge would have been is anybody’s guess.  CorSec High Command is a bit confused as to why Yoda was so irritated with them, as we have wisely declined to reveal our presence last night._

_This whole thing smacks of nonsense._

_I want to go to bed._

_Preferably with you._

_I hope you’re well, and you didn’t say the shortcut involved swimming across the channel that divided the Sectors.  You are a bad, bad man._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Force.  I’m writing in the middle of the night, curled up in some ship’s underbelly bunk while we’re crossing the Mid-Rim back into Inner Rim territory.  Just had a nightmare that I’m surprised didn’t bring Yoda breaking down my door.  I can barely use the keypad right now, my hands still want to shake so much, but I’m not in the mood for meditating, yet.  Maybe after a few gallons of caff.  I don’t want to see anything like that again tonight._

_I was in a battle, alone, fighting a man in black.  I think it was a man—male, at the very least.  Humanoid shape.  No features.  Just…black.  Red lightsaber, that particular shade of red that even the newest Padawans still call Sith Red._

_Even I want to be able to say that it’s one of those typical senior Padawan dreams; new fears manifesting as the boogums from childhood, a culmination of all the history and tall tales we’ve heard about our ancient and long-departed enemy._

_But Qui-Gon, this didn’t feel like a nightmare.  I was so convinced it was real that when I woke up the disorientation made me physically ill.  I barely made it to the damn ’fresher._

_I know I’ve lost some of the detail just from the trial of waking, but I remember losing the fight.  I remember dying._

_I remember believing that if you had been there with me, it would be the Sith dead on the floor, and not his black form laughing over me as I felt life flee my body._

_I don’t know if it’s a warning for you or for me.  But, by all that’s holy, please watch your ass._

_I know one thing for certain as of this moment—my feelings for you go far beyond what I had initially thought._

_All my love,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Ord Vaug?  Really?  I thought they’d actually given up on that pit by now.  I know Master Mace has put his foot down to the Senate that the Order is not sending any further Jedi teams into that clusterfuck (amusingly enough, his term, not mine).  Not surprised that it’s volunteer-only, and also not surprised that you decided to become one of the volunteers._

_Saying “Be careful” sounds superfluous, but I’m saying it anyway.  At the very least, be cautious.  You still owe me a third date, after all._

_Huh.  Intergalactic lists the meaning of k’sharra as “One who is a dear friend” and “Beloved.”_

_I’m happy with either._

_Love,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_This is not a time to be slow about writing letters.  No one has heard anything of you since open conflict broke out on Ord Vaug._

_I am trying to tell myself that all is well.  It’s not like we never went through interesting little times like these, and I know you’ve seen more than your fair share on your own, as well._

_Please, please take a moment to say Hello.  This time, just the one word would make me smile fit to light up the world._

_There is a song that won’t stop playing in my head.  I wish it would just shut the fuck up._

As you're leaving me here, dear  
Alone with all your letters  
Don't let go of your innocence and feathers  
Now I find that every sound reminds me of our song  
Since you left me here, dear  
Alone with all my wrongs

_Shut up, song.  Shut up shut up shut up._

_Be well, Qui-Gon.  I love you._

_Breathing in wait for you,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

 

It would have been better if his heart had been in his throat, if there had been some measure of anticipation of news.  Instead, his heart felt like a stone that had been pinned against his chest, painful even though none of the breaths he took hurt him in the slightest.  That phantom pain ignored things like impossibility; it was fact, because Obi-Wan knew what lay at the end of his solitary vigil.

Master Windu approached him at last, a calm, sober body, cloaked and shadowed by the faded light of day.  Obi-Wan didn’t bother standing up, understanding that it was not necessary. 

“Are they certain?” he asked, staring straight ahead, trying to keep his eyes focused on the deep furrows of the great tree that shaded this particular garden.

“As certain as we can be, given what information there was for us to find,” Master Windu said.  His stern, hard voice was softer than Obi-Wan had ever heard it.  “This is for you, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan took the lightsaber that Master Windu offered him, feeling cool metal against his palms, running his fingers down the familiar casing.  “He still had his lightsaber?” he asked, looking up at the senior Council member.

Master Windu nodded.  “The Council insisted he keep it, despite Qui-Gon’s resignation.  He is—He was very well-known, and there were bound to be times when he would have been a target for his past work for the Order.  We wanted him to be able to defend himself, even if he never carried it again publicly.  He…did not have very much property left on Coruscant, but he made it clear that if it could be recovered, his lightsaber was meant to go to you.”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, nodding.  “Thank you, Master Windu.”

“You’re welcome.  Will you be all right, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan glanced away from the concerned Councilor’s gaze, found his eyes tracking the great map of tree bark once more, and did not answer.  Master Windu merely placed a hand on his shoulder and left him to his thoughts.

He stayed there for five days and five nights, and the lightly scarred silver hilt of Qui-Gon Jinn’s lightsaber never left his hands.  At times, he was completely still, his eyes closed, chest barely rising.  The appearance of being asleep was deceptive; he was deep in trance, his vitals stilled to the barest minimum of function, allowing his mind to consider his thoughts and feelings without the distraction of the physical.  Other times, he was awake, his eyes roaming the great tree, while his hands explored the lightsaber he held, centimeter by centimeter.

He was aware, on some level, that there were members of the Council, teaching Masters, and friends nearby, concerned for him, but his Master was keeping them away.  Yoda was keeping _everyone_ away, giving Obi-Wan the time that he needed.

He couldn’t recall shedding a single tear.  This was beyond tears.  He didn’t know what it deserved.

On the morning of the sixth day, Obi-Wan left the garden and returned to the Southern University, entering a side wing that housed one of the many permanent galleries.  There was a bench in front of the painting he sought, and he sat on it, heedless of the dirt and moisture and mud five days in the grass had painted his robe with.  He stared at the painting before him, trying to find in it what Qui-Gon Jinn had once seen.

Master Yoda found him there hours later, but made no attempt at scolding.  The old Master merely paused by his side, looking at the canvas that Sir C’rell had simply dubbed “Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan finally turned to his Master, the ancient troll who had made sure his path to Knighthood could be found, even if the way proved difficult.  “Master,” he said, and discovered that his voice was mostly gone.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Master…I’m ready.”

“Oh?”  Yoda gazed at him with solemn eyes.  “What do you know of ready, hmm?”

Obi-Wan smiled, but even to him the expression felt bleached of any joy.  “Far too much, Master.”

Yoda lowered his head, his eyes closed.  “Hmm.  Indeed, my Padawan.  Call the Council, I will, this afternoon.  Waiting for you, we will be.”

Obi-Wan took one last look at the painting, his eyes lingering on the pale blue that made up the lightsaber blade.  “Thank you, Master.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“I wish to face the Trials for Knighthood,” he said, and Obi-Wan couldn’t have done more to shock the Council if he’d planned such a thing for years.

“I’m sorry—you want to _what?_ ” Master Mace asked, his brow furrowed in an intimidating frown.  It was not having the effect the man might have intended.

Obi-Wan refrained from sighing.  “You heard well what I said, Master Windu.  I wish to face the Trials.”

Master Yaddle’s ears were standing straight upright.  “In all my years, I have never heard a youngling request such a thing.  Determining the time of the Trials is the Council’s purview, young Padawan, not yours.”

“I am aware that this is normally the case, but it is not law and not in the Code that it must _always_ be so,” Obi-Wan replied, tucking his hands inside his robe sleeves.  “If the Padawan feels ready, he may also request it.”

“And if you fail?” Master Mundi asked, giving Obi-Wan a curious stare. 

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “Then I will remain a Padawan, and will await the time when the Council feels I am ready to be tested once more.  I will have lost nothing, but I will have gained perspective I didn’t have before on what Trials will one day await me.”

Master Windu was studying him, his gaze pensive.  “You have been thinking this through very carefully, haven’t you?”

Obi-Wan inclined his head.  “Yes, Master.”

“Spurred on by your former Master’s recent death?”  Of them all, Master Adi looked the most concerned about Obi-Wan’s apparent lack of sanity, but her eyes were kind.  Her smile was sympathetic in a way that did not bring him new pain.

“In part, yes,” Obi-Wan acknowledged.  “But if that were the only factor, you would have already said no and kicked me out of this room,” he said, and received a few terse smiles in response.  “If the Trials are meant to confront you with what you fear to lose, or are afraid to gain, then you could say that I have seen these things, and my dedication to the Order, to becoming a Jedi Knight, has not been swayed by them.  I have learned that loss doesn’t stop me from being who I am, and doing what I’m meant to do.”

“And what say you, Master Yoda?” Master Mundi asked, glancing at Obi-Wan’s teacher.  “You have tutored this boy since Jinn left the Order, and have been his guiding hand for many years now.  Do you think him ready?”

Yoda tilted his head, as if pondering the question, before giving Obi-Wan a small, sad smile.  “Always his own mind, has Obi-Wan known,” he replied.  “A Jedi Knight, it has always been his goal to be.  Told no many times, he was, but changed his mind, that did _not._ ”  Yoda looked at Master Windu.  “Ready to face the Trials, he is.  Ready to succeed—that, know I do not, but of all Padawans that is said to be true.”

Obi-Wan bowed to his Master; for Yoda, that was a solid recommendation, and the other Councilors would follow his words.  “Thank you, my Master.”

“Thank me later, you may not,” Yoda said crossly, looking concerned for a moment.

“I’ll make you cookies if I fail,” Obi-Wan countered, which made the old troll smile. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_It seems I cannot lose the habit of writing you these letters, even if you will never again be able to answer them.  It eases me, somewhat, to speak to you, to think that somewhere in the Force you can look on in amusement as I blither ceaselessly at a digital mailbox._

_I wonder how long it will take to fill it?  I never did ask what the storage capacity was, though with Dex creating it, I may well be able to write these letters my entire life and never come close to breaking the storage limit._

_Six days after I received word of your death, I went to the Council and confounded them by asking to take my Trials._

_I shocked them again when I passed.  At six months shy of nineteen Standard, I am a Jedi Knight._

_I have no bloody idea what to do with myself._

_Strange.  After losing you, the Trials were…I don’t wish to use the term easy, but it’s the only word I have.  There was nothing that stupid chamber could throw at me that I couldn’t handle.  Does that make me good at what I do, or just fortunate that I am all too familiar with pain and loss?  That I can keep moving and functioning and thinking beyond it?_

_Not that I’m in the mood to smile very often, but irony makes me giggle like a loon if I’m alone.  (I don’t think I could explain to anyone what I found so funny, so it seems to be safer this way.)  Sometimes giggling leads to tears, because dammit, I do miss you.  I still have a touch of anger, but I let it go as best I can.  What, I’m going to yell at you for being_ you _?  That’s just stupid, and accomplishes nothing.  You were doing what you do, because that’s Who You Are, and who you always would be, Jedi Master affixed to your name or not.  You would always be the one to adopt the puppy in the alley, even if you’d never come to the Order._

_Oh, yes—I have an entire litter of them.  Oi.  Their mother was killed during a raid on the last planet I was on, so I’m trying to get them eating real food so they can be adopted.  Eat, dogs, eat!  Not my coat!  Not my boots!  The food!  It’s delici—oh, FUCK THAT’S FOUL.  No wonder they won’t eat it.  I wouldn’t eat this shite, either, if I were them.  _

_Off to find these five canine wonders palatable food.  Might feed them the pilot if he keeps swearing at me in Huttese about puppy puddles.  Not like he’s any more housebroken than they are.  And they don’t smell nearly as bad._

_Always yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_I do not like Hutts.  I do not like them here, I do not like them there.  I do not like them anywhere._

_Covered in things too vile to contemplate,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_I wish to propose a new course, one meant to be offered to the newest Knights and soon-to-be Knighted Padawans.  I call it, “How to Wash Your Own Damn Laundry in Any Conceivable Container That Can Hold Water.”_

_I’m on Valamar.  Direct from Tr’ell.  Tr’ell is muddy.  Transport from Tr’ell to Valamar had no sonics or shower or even some damned tap water.  Valamar is a desert world.  There is only enough water to drink.  I’m supposed to appear as a pristine diplomatic envoy tomorrow._

_Thus, I face the biggest, yet stupidest challenge of my new Knighthood:  How to make beige clothing Beige again, when it is currently BLACK._

_FML,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_There are some days I wonder what the hell I could have possibly been thinking five months ago.  I knew this life was hard, but damn, it’s much harder when you’re doing it alone.  I suppose I could have asked for a working partner, but it didn’t feel right.  Or perhaps I was listening to my pride, certain somewhere down in the depths of my subconscious that I needed to prove that I really had earned the title of Knight._

_I will say that I have never claimed to be overly intelligent._

_Regardless, here I am, several missions into my new career, and I haven’t screwed up yet.  I tentatively take this as a good sign.  Perhaps I’m going to be all right._

_I still think about the painting that bears my name.  I suppose I’m trying to be like the man you once saw.  I don’t think I want to be epic, though.  Epic people are not known for such things because their lives were easy.  Usually, they are epic figures for not faltering as the galaxy falls down around their ears._

_I sometimes consider visiting Ord Vaug, the planet where you met your death.  I refrain, for multiple reasons.  The first—I’m not sure I’d be able to hold my temper, even though the hostilities have ceased now that Judicial has stepped in.  The second—I want to find your body, give it the pyre it deserves, and yet I balk at the very thought.  I’d prefer to remember you as you were, and not what a mob of fucking idiots did to you out of zealousness.  If that makes me a coward, then so be it, but I know my limits and that is a definite one._

_All of the canine pups were adopted out except one.  Yoda kept the last.  Once a tiny little thing, he has already grown into a beast twice my old Master’s size.  He’s an adorable brute Yoda named G’zil, and the last I knew, Master was riding the dog in place of his hoverchair._

_The crèche children are absolutely besotted with both dog and Master.  The Council is not sure what to make of the fact that there is now a canine sleeping behind Master Yoda’s chair during meetings, but no one has had the effrontery to insist that G’zil wait outside._

_Back to the grind.  I’ll be on Kashyyyk in an hour.  I imagine I will be the hit of the evening, as I’m almost certain my syntax is still backwards._

_Always yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_For my nineteenth birthday, I have decided to become stone drunk.  Granted, my birthday was weeks ago, but I was a bit busy at the time and unable to celebrate.  Now I’m on Coruscant, in the Temple, in my own damn room, and I will become utterly sloshed if I want to.  Besides, I’m off the meds from the fiasco that was Falleen.  Perhaps tonight I will sleep without pain._

_Ugh.  Broke both bones in my right leg.  Not clean.  Dirty blades.  The Falleen fight dirty, literally and figuratively.  The hormones they can emit at will were distracting as hell, and I’m Not Interested in Women.  Stupid body chemistry._

_It really made it hit home, though.  I’m lonely.  Damn lonely.  Not that I want to go out to find someone to share personal time with.  In fact, the idea is almost nauseating.  I’m not ready for any such thing, and I know that will be the case for years to come.  I’ll be keeping my body parts to myself, and my right hand works just fine, thank you very much._

_I miss getting responses to these letters, filled with your wonderful observations, both deadpan and precise, about the things you’d seen lately, or crafted comments in response to my latest letter.  I miss knowing that in the middle of reconstruction work after an earthquake, I’d given you something to make you smile.  I miss knowing you, knowing of you, discovering another part of you with every letter exchanged._

_Not.  Drunk.  Enough._

_Quite frankly, miserable,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

 

“Hey, Kiddo!”

Obi-Wan smiled at the woman who had opened her door to his gentle knock, quietly filing away the changes since he had seen her last, a year ago.  Siri Tachi was taller now, almost his height.  She’d grown out her white-blonde hair, and the ends of it were curled, like she’d straightened the top and had become distracted before finishing the job. 

“Hi, Siri.”

“Getcher butt in here, Kenobi,” she said, grinning, and Obi-Wan stepped inside the quarters that Siri still shared with her Master, Adi Gallia.  It was a soothing place that Adi kept stocked with plants that flowered whenever they were inclined, which meant there was bright color at all times in the main room.

Siri gave him tea and offered to top it off with spiced rum, which he declined.  He’d never understood why anyone would want to pollute their tea in such a manner.  Siri quirked her lips in a wry smile and put the bottle aside without adding any to hers. 

“Your manners are improving.  Are you trying to butter me up?” Obi-Wan asked.

She laughed.  “There is no buttering you up, Kiddo.  You either like who you do, or you don’t, and Force help the folks you decide you _don’t_ like.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, taking in her appearance, the over-bright cast to her eyes, and nodded.  “Adi told you, then?”

Siri blew out a breath strong enough to lift her bangs before she dropped down onto the couch, glowering at him.  “I keep forgetting that you might as well still be a Council Padawan, the way the troll confides in you.  Force, Obi-Wan, I’m not ready for my Trials!”

He sat down next to her and took her hand.  Her fingers were cold, and her hand was trembling just slightly.  Siri was good at adjusting to any given circumstance, so she couldn’t have known of her impending Trials for very long.  “Tachi, you’ll be fine.  You damn-near kept up with me in your studies, and I was almost three years ahead of you.  You can swing a lightsaber with the best of us, you thrive in tense situations, and you’re inspiring the hell out of the younger set of Padawans and Initiates.  You’re ready.”

“I don’t feel ready.  I mean, you _asked_ for your damned Trials,” Siri retorted.  “I had them dumped on my head, and they’re in three _days!_ ”

“True,” he agreed.  “But I had something worse dumped on my head.  Believe me, I would have preferred this route, instead.”

“Aw, Obi-Wan, I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite.  “That wasn’t very fair of me.”

“You were upset and didn’t mean it.  Besides,” Obi-Wan continued, raising a challenging eyebrow at her.  “Are you going to let it be known that Siri Tachi is afraid of a _room_?”

She narrowed her eyes.  “It’s what’s _in_ the room that I’m worried about.”

“Then I’ll tell you what Yoda told me,” Obi-Wan said, and squeezed her hand.  “There is nothing more inside that room than what you take with you.”

Siri grinned.  “He didn’t say it like that.”

He chuckled.  “No.  At the time it was more like, ‘In that room, only what you take with you, there is.’  I figured you would appreciate the translated version, though.”

“Brat,” she said, and punched Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  “I’ve been translating Yoda-ese almost as long as you.”

He smiled.  “Perhaps.  But you feel better now, don’t you?”

She nodded, her expression uncharacteristically sober.  “Yeah, I do.  Will you be here in three days?  I’d like it if you were waiting on the other side for me, with Master Adi.”

Obi-Wan wrapped his arm around Siri’s shoulders.  “I already told the Council that I wasn’t budging unless my cloak was on fire,” he promised.  “You’re the first of our friends to take your Trials.  No _way_ would I miss this.”

“Thanks.”  Tachi sighed.  “It’s not fair.  I should have been third or fourth, not second.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, feeling the old echo of sadness.  Garen would have been second, if not for Yinchorr.  Bant had survived losing Master Tahl, but when Garen and Master Micah had been killed, she’d left the Order, returning to Mon Calamari to find her own peace.  “You might be second, but you won’t be the last,” he swore, and Siri hugged him.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Hmm?” he asked, his chin resting in Siri’s soft hair.

“What the hell does Master Yoda mean?”

He grinned.  “Think about it.  You’ll figure it out.”

When she stumbled out of the Chamber of Trials three days later, he was there for her, Master Adi by his side.  They wrapped Siri back into her own pale gray cloak, supporting her, holding her in their arms as Siri shook and swore and cried. 

“Was it a harsh journey, my Padawan?” Adi asked, smoothing back Siri’s sweat-soaked hair.

“Yeah,” Siri mumbled, sniffling and taking the soft handkerchief that Obi-Wan offered to wipe her face.

“You did good, Kiddo,” Obi-Wan said, and smiled at the startled look on her face.  “Welcome to Knighthood, Tachi.”

“Wow,” said Siri, her eyes wide and shocked, as the gathered Jedi Masters came forward to offer their congratulations to the newest Jedi Knight of the Order.

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_People are still coming up to me and asking when Siri Tachi and I are going to become a permanent item.  Are they fucking stupid?  She’s my friend, and at this point, a very dear one.  Nothing more._

_ARGH.  Subtle hints do not work on Temple gossip mongers.  I would like to go home and not be beset by busybodies who want to know about my dating life.  I bought my right hand a fifth of good Corellian brandy—does that fucking count?!  Lay. Off!_

_I will admit, I still can’t take myself in hand (har har) without thinking of you.  And there’s still too much that is left to my imagination, despite the close quarters we shared for three years, and our time together on Corellia.  That time was just Too Damned Short!_

_I can remember the long length of your back, and the way you seemed both pale and yet never pale at all despite the limited amount of sunlight most of your skin had seen.  I really, really miss your hands.  It grieves me that I never got to see those long, talented fingers hold a brush to canvas, to create one of the massive illuminaries that Coruscant society is still talking about to this day._

_Siri’s Knighting Ceremony really made it real to me—I’m not just lonely, I’m alone.  Siri is a good friend, but all of my agemates are gone.  There weren’t very many of us, so, it didn’t take much.  Garen to death, Bant to grief, Aalto to a stray blaster shot on Ralltiir, Davrin was expelled, Bruck taking that header off the cliff…_

_I still wrestle with that last one, wanting to think he deserved it, after his dealings with Xanatos and the children he tried to hurt.  But the more time I spend out here in the galaxy, the more I believe that no one deserves to have that judgment passed upon them.  We Jedi are supposed to be judges when there is no one else, but FORCE, how can I condemn anyone based on a day’s knowledge of his, her, or its existence?  The best I can do is follow the Force and let others handle the rest, and yet it feels like it’s not enough.  That I’m letting things flow down the too-easy path._

_I fear that if you were here, that if I voiced these questions, you would be just as without answers as I was.  That is not a comfort.  Hells, not even Yoda can come up with a satisfactory answer, and I know this disturbs him._

_What’s happening out here?_

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Again.  Again with the nightmare._

_Who the hell is that man in black, wielding a Sith-red blade like it’s an extension of his arm?  Because if I ever meet him, I’m going to kick his ass for killing me over and over again in my sleep.  This is Not Restful._

_Have a diplomatic contention in…gods, half an hour.  I look like death.  Bleah._

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_There are times I allow myself to lie awake at night and think of you.  Between missions, the few times I am home._

_(Why is it a policy that new Knights must be worked to death before they’re allowed real downtime?  Do they want me to throw rocks at the Council when I report to them?  I have plenty.  They shouldn’t tempt me.)_

_I can’t even write anything to you right now that doesn’t involve some degree of bitching.  I’m going home next week, and they can line up and blow me if the notion is displeasing.  I’m just too damned angry at the universe in general at the moment, and I’ll soon be of no use to anyone.  I want to go home.  I want to give G’zil a bath in the gardens and let a bunch of laughing Initiates help me until we’re all covered in water, suds, dog hair, and slobber.  I want to drink enough caff to power a city grid and then spend three days among your paintings without sleeping, just for the chance that I might see something new._

_Three days on Coruscant for Siri’s Trials was either just blind luck or Yoda pulling strings.  I suspect the latter.  He knew how I felt about it, and how much such a thing would mean to her.  The troll wins at life and Jedi-hood in general._

_Gods, I miss you.  I want to wake up and kiss you and taste tea on your lips or spend an evening with you, when tea has been replaced by ale._

_And I Can’t. Have. That._

_There are mornings I wake up and my eyes are red and my pillow is wet, and I can’t remember what I dreamed of, but all I think I smell is you._

_I feel like I’ve lost part of my soul._

_Yoda says that you are always a part of me, and I believe him—but by the Force, I just want to Feel It._

_Time is my ally and my enemy, it seems._

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Can I really be twenty Standard years?  Is time flying by at such a pace that I’m losing track of my own birthdays?_

_Siri sent me a digital missive, catching me up on her first year as a Knight, which is already almost complete.  Gods.  Time is flying._

_Of course, it always does that, because I have developed this bad habit of throwing chronos out of my room, bunk assignment, hole in the wall—wherever I can find to sleep.  Things are speeding up._

_Someone once wrote a poem, saying that the center cannot hold._

_Bullshit.  The center is holding just fine.  It’s everything around the center that seems to be falling to bits.  Alliances thousands of years old are fraying.  Trade disputes are fermenting.  Someone in the Senate wants to lay a new tax on the Perlemian, which is a Bad Idea.  It’s already one of the most heavily taxed routes, and is causing a serious upswing in the amount of working smugglers Mid-to-Outer Rim.  What, you idiots think that driving the price of commerce to insane heights will make things better?_

_I got censured for that one.  Said it in public, to a small gathering of Senators that asked for my opinion while there was a reporter nearby.  Made the evening news.  I’m so proud.  Master Mace looked like he wanted to gnaw chunks out of his chair.  “They asked,” I said, when an explanation was demanded of me._

_I am two cups into some evening brandy, and to be honest I can’t stop laughing.  Can you imagine?  The child I once was would have been utterly APPALLED to have been censured.  I would have ducked my head and Yes, Master’d and No, Master’d and done my best to avoid their displeasure._

_Screw that._

_Yoda bought me dinner after that meeting.  If my truth-telling will still get me free food, then it’s worth it._

_And worth the rumors that came back during the next week.  I apparently earned the Order points for not appearing to be falling in line with the Senate on this nonsense.  Good.  I am hearing far too many of us parrot that crap that the Jedi are servants of the Senate._

_SINCE WHEN!?_

_WHEN THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?  BECAUSE I MUST HAVE MISSED THAT MEMO!_

_Hee!  I’m screaming at a mailbox._

_Bwahahah.  I like Corellian Brandy—it makes me a happy drunk.  Beats being a sodden, miserable one._

_“Well, what should we tax, then?” the Senators asked—and this part did not show up on the HoloNet, in case the dead are curious._

_“Tax yourselves, why don’t you?  Your transports get free passes into Coruscant, while everyone else has to go through customs and pay the fines.  The income from that alone would offset quite a percentage of Republic debt.”_

_No, the Senate does not like lil’ ol’ Obi-Wan Kenobi.  They were quite miffed by the idea of having to pay their way, just like the rest of us common folk.  Hell, even the Temple pays a fee each year to cover the cost of our transports going in and out, and that doesn’t include what we have to pay when using non-Temple transportation._

_Ass. Hats.  Every one of them.  Needs to wear a hat shaped like their own rear-ends._

_Betcha that would improve the ratings for Senate broadcasts._

_Always yours, and I imagine this letter would have made you regret it,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Gods, what a mess._

_Someone tried to assassinate Chancellor Valorum.  I wasn’t there; it was Jaden Kale’s team of three that intercepted the plot.  They saved his life, but three Senators and half of the Trade Federation’s leadership died in the ensuing chaos._

_This happened on Coruscant.  In the Senate District.  Within view of the Temple.  And yet we felt no warning from the Force, no disturbance that would have led nearby Jedi to the place where we most certainly were needed._

_There just aren’t enough of us to go around anymore, Qui-Gon.  It was annoying ten years ago, but now?  Now it just feels like time is running us into the ground.  I’ve heard mutterings from different sources after the assassination attempt that the Order is a dying body, one that will soon give in to extinction._

_Why now?  The Jedi have been present in the galaxy for over a thousand generations, possibly longer than the Republic itself has stood.  I know all things have their time and place, but this feels wrong._

_Nothing. Makes. Sense.  I feel like I’m being pushed into place.  That I’m meant to play a part to someone else’s liking instead of my own, and the sensation is driving me crazy.  I meditate on the Force and see nothing, yet I feel an unshakable sense of foreboding.  I can’t tell if it’s for myself or the galaxy at large, but gods, it’s like having an itch that can never be scratched._

_I need to go meditate.  Delegation from the Trade Federation, new leadership included, is scheduled to meet on Coruscant to discuss new trade routes and the increased taxation.  The new Viceroy is a Nemoidian named…Gueray? Gunter?  Gunray?  Can’t remember.  First name is Nute.  My intergalactic dictionary defines the word as a pocket of intestinal gas.  Fuck, am I going to regret looking up that little nugget of information.  I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it every time the man speaks.  I’m hopeful that he also does not act like a bubble of gas._

_I’m supposed to observe the meeting while others discuss the matter.  Master Yoda hopes that my outside perspective might help them to see something that the committee does not.  It isn’t encouraging to me that the Council feels this necessary._

_Days, weeks, months…time doesn’t stop passing.  It’s been over two years now.  I miss you still._

_All my love,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_Now THERE’S a meeting that didn’t go well.  Nute Gunray is, indeed, an annoying pocket of gas hidden within a green fish suit.  I am an open-minded man, but fuck, that asshole needs a starship rammed up his rectum to improve his bloody disposition!_

_Needless to say, they are now threatening embargoes, blockades, protests, higher prices on shipping…  Oi.  My presence was of little use.  This new Viceroy is Not Subtle.  I don’t think he understands the definition of the word.  He backed down when Valorum finally had enough and threatened to throw Gunray out of the hearing, but I suspect it will not be the last time we hear from Fishface Gaspocket._

_G’zil is a great stress reliever.  I think I understand now why Yoda kept the dog.  I’ve never seen a canine so interested in keeping people cheerful and comfortable.  Right now, he’s allowing me to use his very broad backside as a footrest.  A warm, furry footrest.  Or perhaps it’s merely an apology for eating one of my socks when I fell asleep in Yoda’s chair yesterday._

_The Master returneth.  I believe we could both use some tea.  With rum._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_It’s not an uncommon thing that I dream of you, even if I don’t speak of it much, not even in these blind missives.  My head misses you, my heart misses you, and a certain part of my anatomy especially misses you.  Thus, it’s really not a surprising thing, to see you in my dreams._

_It’s the first time I’ve seen the threads again, though.  Those faint blue threads that once temporarily entwined us in the Force were present, and yet I couldn’t see what they touched._

_It was weird.  If it’s a symbolic dream—what, our connection goes on beyond death?  I knew that, Subconscious.  Try to be a little more fucking specific, please._

_Oh, and while I’m asking for impossible things, I’d like for my next bout of dreaming to feature you, me, and a lot of nudity._

_Augh._

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_It looks like I’m going to see Naboo, after all._

_My birthday present this year was learning that Fishface Gaspocket has the patience of a dust mote.  The Trade Federation has blockaded Naboo in protest.  As a twenty and one celebration goes, they really need not have bothered._

_I’m baffled by their choice of targets, to be honest.  Naboo is not a very important planet, despite being a nice place, as you once told me.  Politically, its Senator, Palpatine, can do very little for the Federation.  He’s popular, not powerful, and despite what the Federation may think, there is a difference.  _

_I’m being sent to dissuade them from this idiocy.  Given my talents for blunt, honest negotiation and a reputation for irritable temper (where did That come from, anyway?), this shouldn’t take very long.  Then I plan on visiting that tree.  I want to see which is more beautiful—it, or the illuminary you created._

_I carry your lightsaber with me always, hidden from the galaxy as you once hid it.  To this day, the resonance of your presence still remains within the crystal matrix.  I take what comfort I can from it._

_Missing you,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_Oh, Force, exhausted.  Nothing has gone as planned.  Or imagined.  Or anything._

_I’d always heard that the Trade Federation disliked confrontation, but Gunray apparently enjoys it.  Not only did he blow up my transport (Fair winds, Captain Madakor), but the Federation has invaded the fucking planet!_

_For Force’s Sake—WHY?  What’s the point?  What can they possibly hope to achieve with this tactic?  If they wanted a new trade agreement with the Naboo, they could have just kept the embargo in place—or hey, the negotiator had arrived!  Utilizing my services would have saved us all a lot of pain and protest and I am going to punch Fishface in his fishy green face if I ever meet him again._

_King Veruna is dead.  A heart attack from learning of the invasion, I was told.   His health had been in decline.  Not that he’d admitted such a thing publicly.  I learned all this from Padmé Naberrie—that’s right, your Padmé.  She’s eleven now, and the current Governor of Theed.  She’d just started her campaign for the throne for next year’s elections, but the Trade Federation interrupted everyone’s day in the rudest possible manner.  The Federation had her, part of her staff, and the King’s Advisory Council under arrest.  Force knows what they had planned for them.  Force knows what would have happened if I hadn’t overridden my little transport’s automated controls.  The invading vessels were all dropping onto the other side of the planet.  I never would have made it to Theed in time._

_Instead, I crashed into the river and went over the falls just outside the city.  Not my greatest landing.  After multiple confrontations with far too many battle droids, I’m on the royal transport with Padmé, her friend Sabé, part of the Royal guard, and a few pilots from the Royal fighter corps._

_Sabé and Padmé make an interesting pair.  They are apparently lifelong friends, and look similar enough that Sabé had already been chosen to be Padmé’s body double if the latter became Queen of Naboo.  They’re also both well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, and a large percentage of Naboo’s Advisory Council are, as well.  When I came to their rescue, the entire group turned on their captors and helped me dispatch the droids.  Quite pleasing.  Well, Sio Bibble did nothing, but he’s at least ninety, so I think he can be forgiven for not punching a metal object in the face.  _

_Bibble, as the highest ranking member of Veruna’s Council, volunteered to stay behind and attempt further negotiations with the Federation.  He gave Padmé the task of petitioning the Senate for aid.  Poor kid.  She’s brilliant and determined, but she’s never even left her home quadrant.  I have my hands full not only preparing her for what the Senate will be like, but tearing apart this fucking hyperdrive, too.  We took a hit running the blockade during our escape, and the only planet in short-range distance that’s even relatively safe is Tatooine.  Fortunately, a surviving astromech droid, R2-D2, has been bloody invaluable in helping me.  Smart little droid.  I want to adopt him, but he’s part of the royal household._

_Oh, but these Naboo are devious, Qui-Gon.  When Veruna died, they hid his body in the palace morgue, stripped of any signs of the traditional Naboo royal raiment.  They told Fishface that Veruna had escaped Theed before the invasion reached the city, and was on the run.  Padmé informed me that Gunray was furious; he can’t get a treaty approved in the Senate without the King of Naboo’s signature._

_Wisely, of course, no one informed him that Padmé was now the only person capable of signing in his place.  I think I’m going to like these people._

_I hate Tatooine, though.  I was there last year, once I discovered Dad and Owen had moved out to get away from the bustle of Ator.  It’s like visiting a FURNACE.  Dad loves it, Owen loves it—if I ever needed proof that I take after my mother, I certainly have it now. _

_I don’t have time for another family meeting, though.  I’ve got to find a motivator and get us the hell off of that rock before more trouble comes calling._

_We’ll be able to land in approximately twelve hours.  Just enough time to get this ship ready to have a new motivator dropped into place.  I want us to be up in the air and ready to leave._

_Busy as frack and annoyed,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

Their luck held out right until the Toydarian reminded Obi-Wan of something he had forgotten—that his species was immune to Mind-tricks, and, apparently, to Republican currency, which had less value than sticks on Tatooine. 

“Let’s go,” Obi-Wan said in an undertone to Padmé and Sabé, both of whom had insisted upon accompanying him.  He’d thought about arguing, sighed, and waved them along.  It was the guard captain, Panaka, who’d looked as if he wanted to chew through his hat at the thought.  They were good in a fight, at least.  Obi-Wan understood Padmé’s desire to help see to her ship, and, ultimately, her people. 

The little blond-haired boy the girls had been chatting with waved as they departed, a forlorn expression on his face.  “I’m glad to have met you!” he called, and for a moment, there was a bright flash in the Force.

Obi-Wan glanced back; the flash was fading, but he knew where it had come from—the boy Watto had referred to as Ani.   

Ani, noticing Obi-Wan’s attention, smiled and waved again.  Obi-Wan smiled back, nodded, and left the store, still able to overhear Watto ranting in Huttese about Outworlders.  R2-D2, following on Obi-Wan’s heels, chirped snidely in response.

The group of four found a shady alcove, away from the bustle of Mos Espa’s assorted citizenry.  “What do we do now?” Padmé asked, her lips compressed into a thin line. 

“I don’t know about you, but I seem to have left my non-Republic wallet at home,” Sabé deadpanned.

“We’ll think of something, though I have no idea yet what that may be,” Obi-Wan confided, leaning against the smooth stone wall and lacing his hands together over his abdomen.  He was far too warm, even after exchanging his coat for a gray silk overtunic that fell past his knees.  It did an excellent job of hiding his lightsaber from view, though, as he was far more worried about keeping them from notice than he was about a little sweat. 

“We might be able to find someone who works both sides of the border and do a currency exchange, but there’s usually a fee, and we may lose too much in the process.”

“Which would still leave us without a motivator.”  Padmé sighed.  “We could try another planet, I suppose.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “Malastare would be worse.  Also, we don’t know if the Federation has uncovered your little ruse yet, and if they have, they’ll be looking for you.  If that’s the case, then the Federation’s presence on Malastare is too large to even make it into port safely.”

“And we do know for certain that a working motivator is right there,” Sabé said, jerking her thumb back in the direction of Watto’s shop.  “We just have to figure out how to get it.”

“If all else fails, I will…ah…borrow it,” Obi-Wan said with a wry smile.  “I can always send him payment in Cho-Mar at a later date.  However, given that he would send the Hutts after us, I’d like to save that for a last resort.”

“Ah, trapped between Hutts and the Trade Federation.  You certainly know how to show the girls a good time, Knight Kenobi,” Sabé grinned.  Padmé rolled her eyes.

“Well, at the very least, I can get us something to eat,” Obi-Wan replied, giving R2 a pat on his domed head before stepping back out into the heat.  “There’s a market up ahead that looks promising.”

The market had food, and a few vendors that even accepted Republic currency.  That was a relief, since Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted to practice his sleight of hand to acquire lunch.  That relief lasted all of three minutes before they were accosted by a Dug and his entourage.

The Dug had his eyes on Padmé and Sabé, and was paying very little attention to Obi-Wan.  When he spoke, it was in Huttese with a thick accent.  “How much?”

“How much for what?” Obi-Wan replied in the same language.  He had a disturbing hunch that he knew what the Dug wanted.

The Dug snorted and gave Obi-Wan a glare.  “How much for the girls, you idiot!”

“Ah.”  Obi-Wan crossed his arms.  “They’re not for sale.”

“What!”  Padmé’s angry protest was almost drowned out by Sabé's laughter.

“Don’t play trader’s games with me,” the Dug snarled.  “Whatever your price, I will pay it to have such…luxurious humans.”  With that, the Dug reached out with one foot to take hold of Sabé’s wrist.

Deciding enough was enough, Obi-Wan used his boot to give the Dug a firm, swift shove.  The Dug slid to a stop several feet away and began shouting threats in Huttese and his own language, stopping only when a shadow crossed his face.

The boy from the shop, Ani, was grinning down at the Dug, but the expression wasn’t pleasant.  “Careful, Sebulba,” the boy said, his Huttese flawless.  “He’s a big-time Outlander. You wouldn’t want him to take you apart before we get the chance to race again.”

“Slime!” Sebulba growled.  “Next time we race, you’ll be a splatter on the canyon wall.  If you weren’t a slave, I’d squash you now!”

Ani snorted.  “Yeah, it’d be a real shame if you had to pay for me.”

The Dug retreated, followed by his entourage, leaving Obi-Wan facing the boy who had, quite frankly, just done an excellent job at defusing a situation that could have gotten ugly fast.  “Hello again.”

“Hi,” Ani said, and this time when he smiled his eyes were full of bright friendship.  “Don’t worry about Sebulba.  He acts big because the Boonta Eve is coming up.  He’s top pick for the gamblers,” the boy said, twisting his lips for a moment before glancing up at Obi-Wan in concern.  “There’s a big sandstorm coming.  Do you guys have a place to go?”

“Our ship is on the outskirts,” Padmé offered.  Obi-Wan glanced over to find that the girl had a large smile on her face, and her eyes were riveted on the boy.  _Oh, Force,_ he thought.  _Save me from pubescent crushes._

Ani frowned.  “Okay, that’s bad.  The storms in this season move fast, and that’s too far.  You won’t make it in time.  C’mon.  I’ll take you to my place.  It’s a lot closer.”

“You’re very trusting,” Obi-Wan said, tilting his head.  “How do you know we won’t rob you of all that you own?”

Ani giggled.  “Good luck with that.  I’m Anakin Skywalker,” he said, and held up his small, tanned, grease-stained hand.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.”  He took Anakin’s hand and the flare from earlier resurfaced, quickly tamped down by the boy’s natural shielding. 

Obi-Wan said nothing as he, girls, and droid followed Anakin through Mos Espa.  The wind was already picking up, flinging stinging sand at their unprotected faces.  He barely noticed.

He’d never felt _anything_ like Anakin Skywalker before. 

 

*          *          *          *

                        

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_I’ve wanted you at my side for years, but tonight is the first time I’ve desperately desired your presence for the sake of figuring out What the FUCK I’m going to do!_

_I’ve met a boy named Anakin Skywalker, who lives here in Mos Espa with his mother, Shmi Skywalker.  They’re both slaves.  There are far more slaves in this quadrant than I’m used to seeing outside of the Republic.  I suspect the Hutt influence._

_Anyway, that’s not the primary concern I have.  I have funds and yet we’re broke, and the longer we’re stuck on Tatooine, the longer the Trade Federation has to establish itself on Naboo and make a claim that will seem more legitimate to the Senate.  (Which pisses me off—this should be unthinkable!)_

_This boy, who shines in the Force like a damned supernova, is a podracer.  He’s eight years old.  He races_ _pods.   And from what Shmi told me, when she wasn’t expressing her terror over the races, he’s GOOD.  _

_He races for his owner, Watto, in a pod that he’s just finished patching back up from a crash during a previous race.  Sebulba again, it seems.  Not only is he lead pick, and has won the Boonta Eve challenge for the last five cycles, he makes it a point to take out as many racers as possible.  I should’ve kicked him harder._

_Qui-Gon, the boy is volunteering to race on our behalf, provided we can cover the entry fee.  He wins, we get money, cash = parts, parts = getting the hell out of here.  And you know, I think he’d win, this time.  Just a feeling, really, but a very strong one._

_He’s been building another pod, as well, filching parts from Watto’s junkyard, one piece at a time.  It’s almost complete, though the engines have yet to be fired._

_I suppose if we finished up Anakin’s makeshift pod, I could fly it, and yet my instincts scream at me not to rely on myself to win this race.  Besides the fact that I’ve never been podracing before in my life, I don’t think that path would net us as much.  Anakin, at least, is a known racer—as a newcomer the odds for gambling on myself would be horrible._

_I…_

_Huh._

_Maybe I have an idea, after all._

_All my love,_

_Obi-Wan_

*          *          *          *

 

“That’s…absolutely crazy,” Padmé said, but there was a thoughtful look in her dark brown eyes.

“Completely crazy,” Sabé agreed.  “I rather like it, though.”

Shmi had the look of a woman who has seen her offspring into danger far too many times.  “I have always had great respect for the Jedi, Knight Kenobi—”

“Obi-Wan,” he corrected.

Shmi nodded.  “Obi-Wan.  But this plan of yours worries me.”

Obi-Wan spread his arms wide, letting his open hands fall onto the table.  “The floor is now open for different and better ideas.  Right now, this is the best I’ve got.”

“It sounds wizard to me,” Ani said with a guilty smile.  “But anything that lets me pilot sounds good.  Sorry, Mom.”

Shmi sighed, but ruffled her son’s hair in amused tolerance.

“Wait a minute,” Padmé said, lifting her head and giving Obi-Wan an accusing look.  “That is far more money than we actually need.”

“Of course it is.  A wise man once told me that it is always a good idea to help those that assist you,” Obi-Wan replied, crossing his arms and lifting one eyebrow.

“What do you—Oh!” Padmé gasped, her eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.  “You really think we can pull that off?”

Anakin looked bug-eyed, as well.  “I could win Mom’s freedom?”

“And yours!” Shmi insisted, a flash of panic in her eyes.  “In fact, yours _first,_ young man!”

“I know that none of this is ideal, but I really do feel like it’s our best course of action.  And Shmi, remember, I’d be racing with Anakin in the second pod,” Obi-Wan pointed out.  “I can keep him safe from Sebulba, or anyone else that tries to take potshots at him, which only increases his chances of winning.”

“So we—what, bet on Anakin to win?  And we bet on you to lose?” Padmé asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan said, grinning.  “You bet on me to place second.”

Sabé gave him a shrewd look.  “All right, provided we can do all of this in the next two days, how do we come up with the entry fee?”

He took a deep breath, let it out, and told them.

To her credit, Padmé only threatened to set him on fire a little bit.

The next two days were, quite possibly, the busiest of his life.  He negotiated with an outgoing pilot to exchange his Republican dataries for the local Cho-Mar, part of which he gave to Watto to pay for Shmi and Anakin’s services.  There was too much to do, and too little time to rely on just his skills alone.  The money got Watto to happily leave them all alone.

The Twi’lek registering new racers was all too pleased to accept the Nubian ship as a cover for the entry fee.  Obi-Wan frowned and read through the paperwork three times to make sure he could reclaim it as long as he brought the racing fee back by the end of race day.  The last thing they needed was for the Hutts to pull a fast one and keep their only transport.

“Nah, they wouldn’t do that,” Anakin confided, once they left the empty stadium.  “If the race got a bad reputation, no one would come back.  It’s not just the Hutts who would lose money, so they’re honest.  Mostly.  I mean, they don’t care if you die during the race or anything,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan sighed and sent a silent prayer to the Force.

Obi-Wan used a borrowed speeder to make several laps of the Boonta Eve course with Anakin, who did an excellent job of pointing out pitfalls, faster routes over and through the terrain, and even noted possible places to overtake opponents who might be in the lead.  Obi-Wan was impressed and told Anakin so, and the boy blushed a fiery red. 

Anakin’s embarrassment aside, Obi-Wan was glad for the expertise, since the course was only marked by tiny sensors tracked by the pod’s computer.  There were little, if any, visual clues to follow.

The girls and Shmi went back to the Naboo starcruiser and raided King Veruna’s royal wardrobe.  Then they put the entire ship’s complement to work, cutting, re-sizing, and creating new clothes out of the rich fabrics.  Sabé and Padmé became visiting royal courtiers, tourists who wished to see “real” podracing.  Obi-Wan was handed an outfit that looked every part the professional podracer, designed for protecting his skin at high speeds as much as it was for attracting the interest of any vaguely compatible species.

“Does it have to be skin tight?” he asked plaintively, glaring at Sabé as she stuck a series of pins into the sleeve to re-size the garment one last time.

“Yes.  Every little bit helps, and if people are drooling over you, then they’re more likely to bet on you,” the girl retorted with a merciless smile.  “You’re the one who wanted to drum up the odds.  And, you are completely drool-worthy, Knight Kenobi.”

Anakin was re-outfitted also, in another leather outfit.  That one was far more appropriate to his age, yet still lended him the air of a professional pilot.  He kept turning in circles, trying to see himself in the ship’s mirror.  “I’ve never worn anything like this!” he whispered in awe.

“Me either,” Obi-Wan grumbled, which made Shmi smile and the girls elbow each other with mischievous looks.

Shmi was given a new dress as well, since Obi-Wan and crew decided that the woman should look the part of a successful pilot’s mother.

“But—I’ve never been a successful pilot,” Anakin said, his face scrunched up in bafflement.

“Yes, but there will be people who don’t know that,” Obi-Wan explained, just barely resisting the urge to ruffle Ani’s hair.  “This is about presentation, and sometimes fancy clothes are all people notice.”

“That’s stupid,” said Anakin.

“But useful,” Padmé mused, looking thoughtful once more.

Panaka’s uniform was altered, and the guard Captain’s leathers became as daunting as his permanent scowl.  “If you hadn’t included me, I would have shot you,” the man growled at Obi-Wan, tucking a second blaster into place in his new cross-chest holster.  

“Please save your blaster fire for the appropriate time,” Obi-Wan said pleasantly.  “But keep frowning like that.  You’ll be able to keep everyone’s hands off of Padmé and Sabé without ever needing a weapon.”

The fitting complete, Obi-Wan stripped out of the leathers and put his tunics and trousers back on, grumbling under this breath about hormone-ridden teenagers all the while.  Then he found an available razor in the ’fresher and began carefully shaving off his beard.  It was hard going, not having scissors available to trim off the longer hair first, but he’d had enough of the sweat that was soaking his jaw line every time he stepped out into the desert.

Once the girls were established in their new personas, they started meeting with the citizens of Mos Espa under the watchful eyes of their bodyguard.  They eagerly spread the word of a new human competitor. 

At first, their news was greeted with jeers and bad jokes.  Obi-Wan and Anakin were derided, odds were discussed, betting was bragged about.  Sabé, however, was good at contriving tales, and before long there was a buzz among the arriving spectators about Ben Lars.  Not only that, but it created fresh speculation about Anakin’s abilities, especially as the boy had already raced five different times and survived every attempt.  In the privacy of the betting room beneath the stadium, several choice bets were made, and the last of Obi-Wan’s converted coin changed hands.

That evening, he got on the ship’s comm to contact a small moisture farm far to the south, using his own ID code.  “Well, well.  Thought you hated Tatooine,” his father teased upon answering.

“I do, and I still believe that you and Owen are crazy,” Obi-Wan retorted, realizing there was a huge smile on his face.  He might have looked like his mother, but it was his father who shared Obi-Wan’s love of sarcasm.  “Are you still a betting man, Dad?”

“Depends entirely on what I’m betting on,” Cliegg Lars replied.

“Well, Ben Lars is about to place second in the Boonta Eve.”  _If all goes to plan,_ he thought.  “And he doesn’t have a staff the way my racing partner does.  Want to help bamboozle a few folks?  It’s for a good cause, I promise you.”

“Music to my ears, son,” Cliegg said with a laugh.  “I’ll be up with your brother tomorrow.”

Fixing Anakin’s pod was the toughest project, but the most enjoyable one.  The boy’s grasp of machinery was just as advanced as both Ani and his mother claimed, and much of the hard work was already done.  Obi-Wan and Anakin spent a pleasant evening together, buried up to their elbows in the wiring and components that would drive the pod’s main computer. 

The next day was reserved for re-cutting the seat so that Obi-Wan could get in the pod without cramming his knees under his chin.  The result was not quite comfortable for his legs and backside, but his reach for the controls and the computer felt natural.  Even better was the vibrating thrum through the pod body as the engines fired up on the first try.  In that brief moment, Obi-Wan remembered he had once dreamed of flying.

R2-D2 took charge of painting the dingy little pod.  When the droid was done, the pod was the color of burnished steel, with red lines and the Lars family sigil neatly burned into the finish.

His father arrived that afternoon with Owen, who was now a well-tanned, bushy-haired, energetic fiend only a year younger than Anakin.  Obi-Wan observed the two boys for a while and couldn’t decide if he’d just created a lifelong friendship or an enduring rivalry. 

The Naboo pilots, Shmi, and the girls greeted his small family, then herded them onto the Nubian ship, refitting already-created outfits so that Ben Lars could have a pit crew.  Cliegg looked at his sage green clothes, took in the leathers that had been set aside for Obi-Wan, and roared with laughter.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re not,” Obi-Wan said, which only made his father laugh harder. 

Owen, Anakin, and the girls took a break from preparations to play kickball with some of Anakin’s friends, so Cliegg used the opportunity to roam Mos Espa to collect betting odds and gossip from the locals, some of whom he knew.  He also kept up the story of semi-famous racer Ben Lars, which added to the babble of curious spectators. 

“They’re definitely cranked for tomorrow,” Cliegg said upon return, looking pleased.  “Sebulba’s still riding high for winning, but there’s some good doubts planted.  Also, there are plenty of folks who want to see the Dug go down.  He’s been pissing people off, abusing his status.  Only thing keeping him from the Hutts’ attention is that he’s still winning races.”

The eve before the race, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Shmi snuck into Watto’s junkyard, with Sabé keeping watch.  Padmé distracted Watto with any question she could think of regarding Toydarians, Outworlders, Mos Espa, podracing—anything to keep the rotund blue alien away from his yard full of junk.

“No booby traps this year,” Anakin whispered, once they finished inspecting the pod he would be piloting tomorrow.  “I’m surprised.  He must be really confident that Sebulba’s going to win.”

“Booby traps?” Obi-Wan repeated, appalled.

“Well, he wants me to race, because it looks good for him,” Anakin said, wiping down the pod one last time with a rag to bring out the pale golden shimmer of its finish.  “But he always bets on Sebulba, so if I won, he’d lose money.”

“How much money?”

Shmi shook her head.  “Too much.  A few days ago I overheard him admit that he was going to bet everything he had this year except for us.”

“Huh.”  Obi-Wan gave the controls one final, paranoid check.  “Should I feel guilty about that?”

Anakin snorted.  “No.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “All right, then.  Let’s go get some sleep.  Tomorrow is going to be…interesting.”

“No, tomorrow’s going to be _awesome_ ,” Anakin insisted.  Obi-Wan and Shmi found themselves exchanging very similar dismayed looks.

It was over dinner that Obi-Wan received a nudge in his ribs from Anakin.  “What?”

Ani looked up at Obi-Wan, then glanced over at Cliegg and Shmi.  Obi-Wan followed the boy’s gaze to find that the two adults were completely engrossed in each other, hardly noticing the food they were eating. 

“What’s wrong with them?” Anakin whispered.

Obi-Wan found himself almost speechless.  That had been the last thing he’d had in mind.  “That, kiddo, is mutual interest.”

“You mean like sex?” Anakin hissed, horrified.  “Gross!”

 

*          *          *          *

           

_Qui-Gon,_

_Everything went according to plan.  I’m still in shock.  This level of conniving I would have once associated with you or Yoda, never myself._

_Sebulba no longer has his pod.  Forgive me if I am far too gleeful about that little fact.  Throw a fucking hydrospanner at_ _my_ _charge?  Oh, hell no, you dingle-faced mutt!  Grr._

_Pleasantries aside—Anakin won.  He won, Qui-Gon.  He pulled off a win that most of the galaxy would consider impossible.  I tell you, staying on his tail for the duration of the race was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.  The kid can FLY.  I want to put him in the cockpit of the Naboo starfighter and let him play, because gods, that would be fun!_

_Ship’s title retrieved with no difficulty, though there was definite grumbling.  Once we counted up the earnings, I realized we were still about fifteen thousand credits short of being able to buy Shmi’s freedom, as well as the parts and Anakin._

_So I smiled brightly, strolled up to the Dug, and asked him if he wanted to buy a championship pod._

_He was all too eager to agree.  Then Sebulba directed me to another racer who was now without a pod, so I sold Anakin’s creation, too.  Force help me, I don’t think my heart or_ _his mother’s could take seeing that boy in another race like that one._

_Watto was eager to accept cold hard cash.  Shmi was right—the bastard bet everything he had on Sebulba.  I could tell he didn’t want to part with his slaves, but an extra ten thousand credits changed his mind.  That and my gentle, if sarcastic reminder that he would be destitute fast if he couldn’t pay off his debt to the Hutts.  I might have felt a moment’s guilt over his plight, but they sure as hell wouldn’t._

_I have two deactivated slave controllers in my belt-pouch, and the leftover credits I split between Shmi and my father, who I know could use the help.  (I think he put a small wager on us, too.  Naughty man.)  The Council is not going to be pleased that I will return to them penniless, but I’ve barely touched my working stipend in the past three years.  Phbbt.  They will just have to deal with it._

_Now I have a new point of stress.  Anakin wants to be a Jedi._

_Oh, Force, what do I do?  The Council barely accepts five year-olds who perform exceptionally well on testing.  In general, I completely agree with them, but it’s a miracle that Anakin’s strength in the Force hasn’t physically burned him up.  He’s amazing_, _Qui.  They’ve got to accept him for some sort of training just so he doesn’t kill someone by accident!  He’s got a good heart, but good intentions mean little when you’re directing a sun by the seat of your pants._

_The adrenaline of the day has worn off, thank the Force, yet there is still so much to do.  I’ll be glad to have Shmi and Ani’s help with installing that damned hyperdrive motivator.  It’ll be nice to get back into space, as I have reserved the right to sleep half the flight back to Coruscant._

_Love to you, wherever in the Force you are,_

_Obi-Wan_

           

*          *          *          *

 

“But I want to be a Jedi, Obi-Wan!” Anakin insisted again, as they rode their borrowed eopies back to Mos Espa.  “Why can’t I be one?”

“I’m not saying you can’t, Ani—I’m saying that ultimately, that decision is not up to me.  Don’t get me wrong, I believe fervently that your abilities in the Force need to be honed, so you will have better control over them, and know how to use them more wisely,” Obi-Wan said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he spoke.  He absolutely refused to give Anakin false hope.  The boy was capable of giving himself plenty on his own. 

“Why do you want to be a Jedi, Ani?”

“It’s—it’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing,” Anakin replied, giving the eopie a pat when it wanted to stop short and nose the ground.  The eopie snorted and moved on.

“Well, I’ve had dreams that involved being eaten for dinner by Nerfs, and yet I want no part of that,” Obi-Wan drawled, which made Anakin grin.  “We dream of many things, Ani.  Why do _you_ want to be a Jedi?”

“Well, I want to help people,” Anakin answered after a moment, his face scrunched up in thought.  “Isn’t that what Jedi do?”

“To a point.”  Obi-Wan scanned the horizon, noticing the speckle of buildings beginning to appear in the distance.  “What’s stopping you from helping people right now?”

“Huh?”  Anakin turned in his saddle and gave Obi-Wan a befuddled look.  “Whadya mean?”

“Well, you’re now a free being,” Obi-Wan explained, giving his own eopie a gentle nudge with his boots when it wanted to halt in its steps and nuzzle a pile of rocks.  “What’s stopping you from helping whomever you want to?”

“Well…  I—I don’t have any authority to help people,” Anakin said, looking even more puzzled than before.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, fighting the urge to smile.  He’d been wondering what drove Anakin’s insistence on being a Jedi Knight, and it appeared they’d reached the core of it.  “Who says you need authority to help someone?”

“But—But I…”  Anakin trailed off, looking both confused and miserable.

“Ani.”  Obi-Wan tugged on the reins, stopping his eopie.  Anakin’s mount came to an immediate halt, sensing that it was getting a break from desert-trudging.  “You had no authority three days ago, and yet you offered your help.  Not only did not having any power keep you from doing the right thing, your offer was accepted regardless of your status as a slave.  What does that tell you?”

Anakin was frowning.  “But you’re a Jedi Knight.  Aren’t you supposed to listen to people?”

Obi-Wan chuckled.  “Not really, no.  Besides—the final decision did not rest with me.  Padmé is the acting Naboo representative, and she was the one who needed to make the choice to accept both what you were offering, and the plan I created for us.  And in case you’re uncertain, she is not a Jedi.”

“Wow,” Anakin said, and was quiet for the rest of the ride back to the city.  It was clear by the pensive expression on his small face that Obi-Wan had practically turned his world upside down once more.  Given the power the boy held within his wiry frame, Obi-Wan considered this an excellent start on his training—whatever training he would eventually receive.

The eopies were given back to their owner, and Obi-Wan followed Anakin through the streets to return to the now almost-abandoned hovel the boy and his mother had called home.  Shmi had already packed her things, accepting the offer of shelter (and potential farming employment) Obi-Wan’s father had given her.  Obi-Wan suspected that his father had ulterior motives, but the man was also fair and honest.  Whatever became of Shmi and Cliegg, Shmi Skywalker would not be taken advantage of.  

The offer was open to Anakin as well; however, Obi-Wan had asked to bring the boy to Coruscant with him, to meet with the Jedi Council and decide what sort of help Anakin’s Force abilities required.  Shmi had seemed both enthused and cautious, but Obi-Wan had assured her that Anakin would be returned to her care if the Council ejected him completely.  If he received training, Obi-Wan would then make sure that Anakin was returned to his mother once that was complete.

If he were accepted as a Jedi Padawan…well.  Obi-Wan swallowed, feeling both elated and nervous at the thought.  _No false hopes, remember,_ he told himself.  “Almost ready?”

“Yeah,” Anakin said, giving the empty hovel a sad smile.  “It’s the only home I really remember.  I guess I didn’t expect to miss it.”  He slipped on a mostly empty backpack, one he’d used to collect mechanical detritus from his room.  Another bag that held his useful possessions, a change of clothes, and the credits his mother had given him was already on the Naboo transport, waiting for him.  There was also a bundle of droid parts that Anakin had claimed he was going to rebuild as a helper for his mother.  After flying Anakin’s scavenged pod, Obi-Wan had no doubt that he would succeed.

“Should we say farewell to Watto?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin grinned.  “I kinda tried to already.  He threw things at me.  I think it’ll be awhile before he calms down.”

They had almost made it back to the city outskirts when a distinctive whine caught Obi-Wan’s attention.  With one hand he sent Anakin behind him, and with the other he drew his lightsaber out of hiding.  Anakin, to his credit, didn’t say a word, and stayed right on his heels as Obi-Wan paced forward, ears and senses alert.

The probe droid dropped down in front of him, and Obi-Wan’s lightsaber was ignited and on the move before the droid’s electrical prod had the chance to crackle to life.  His blade sliced through the black machine in a shower of sparks before both halves thumped into the sand at Obi-Wan’s feet.

“Whoah!” Anakin exclaimed.  “That was fast!”

Obi-Wan squatted on his heels next to the droid, and Anakin mimicked him, giving the bisected probe droid a curious look.   “Probe droid, but I don’t recognize that class.  It’s weird-looking.”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan murmured.  Not only was it unrecognizable in make, it was…

Obi-Wan clenched his hand into a fist, then put away his lightsaber before ripping the silk burnoose up over his head.  Identification be damned.  That didn’t matter any longer.   “Take off your pack, Ani,” he instructed, letting the silk fall over the probe droid’s two halves.  “Open it up.”

Anakin looked baffled but did as Obi-Wan asked, holding the bag open for him as Obi-Wan picked up the probe using the silk, wrapped it up, and put the entire bundle into Anakin’s pack.  His senses were screaming at him, and Obi-Wan knew time was short. 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully, Ani.  Can you do that?” Obi-Wan asked, feeling the spit dry up in his mouth, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.  There was something coming, something that owned this particular droid, and it was Dark.

Anakin nodded, his eyes dark and serious, as if he could pick up on what Obi-Wan sensed.  Perhaps, subconsciously, he could.  “Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to run back to the ship.  It’s far, and you’ll feel tired, but you must not stop,” Obi-Wan explained tersely.  “Something is coming, and it is not happy.  You must get onto the ship, with that bag, no matter what you see.”

“But I want to help you,” Anakin said, squaring his shoulders.  “You said I could help anyone now.”

 _One of these days I’ll manage to talk myself into a duracrete wall,_ Obi-Wan groused.  “Yes, I did, but this is the way you’re going to help me.  If I don’t make it back to the ship—shush now, just listen,” he said, interrupting Anakin’s protests.  “If I can’t make it, then the way that you will help me is to go to Coruscant with the Naboo.  You must take that probe droid to the Jedi Council, in the Jedi Temple.  If they refuse to see you, ask for Master Yoda.  Use my name if you have difficulties.  The Jedi must know of what this is, Ani.  If I’m right, then you will be helping the entire _galaxy_ by giving them this droid.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Anakin agreed, but his eyes were huge and scared.  “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.  You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”

Obi-Wan paused.  “Really?  No, wait, never mind.  Not important.  I don’t want anything to happen to me, either, but my duty is to keep you and the Naboo safe.  It is vital that they get to Coruscant, remember?  That way Padmé and Sabé can help their people.  You can help me, and everyone else.  Tell Master Yoda what I said to you, though I daresay he’ll recognize your potential on his own.  Be polite, be respectful.  Tell him you like his cookies,” Obi-Wan said.  Time was running away from them, but he couldn’t send the boy to the Jedi without telling him _something._   “They’re awful, but he tries really hard.”

Anakin nodded.  “Polite.  Respectful.  Praise the cookies.  Give the Jedi this thingy in my backpack,” he said, parroting back Obi-Wan’s instructions.

“And don’t touch the thingy in your backpack.  It doesn’t feel very nice,” Obi-Wan added.

“Right.   Then what, Obi-Wan?”

“No clue,” Obi-Wan confided, smiling in quick reassurance.  “Let’s go!”

The Darkness that Obi-Wan sensed caught up with them when the ship was in view.  The speeder whirred overhead, going straight over Anakin and forcing the boy to dive headfirst into the sand to avoid being run over. 

Obi-Wan didn’t have time to think; there was a red blade in his face and his own lightsaber was up to block it, and he was trying to duel in loose desert sand.  “GO!” he yelled at Anakin.  “Make sure they leave!  Remember what I told you!”

Anakin bit his lip, nodded, and dashed towards the ship’s open ramp.  The dark creature moved to follow, but Obi-Wan cut him off with a growl.  “I don’t think so!”

The black-cloaked menace from Obi-Wan’s countless nightmares snarled back at him.  “You would do well to give me my prey, Jedi!”

“No can do, sorry,” Obi-Wan replied, his teeth bared in a fierce grimace.  The Dark figure was damned-near hammering him with his blade.  The creature had a face after all:  humanoid, covered in red and black tattoos in a pattern that Obi-Wan had only ever seen in old textbooks on the Sith. 

He’d been right.  Gods, let the Council recognize what he had felt, let Yoda remember and tell them of the nightmares Obi-Wan had recounted to the old troll. 

The Sith were returning.

 

*          *          *          *

_Ah, Qui-Gon.  I think I have a talent for getting into extra-special situations._

_The Sith—for that is what he is, of that I have no doubt—did not engage me in battle further once the Naboo ship lifted off from the desert sands.  Instead, he managed to get past my guard, and gave me one hell of a kick to the hip, sending me sliding through a pile of rocks on my side.  (Gravel burn: Still not pleasant.)  He collected his speeder and left in a hurry.  I wouldn’t have given him the chance, but I did have to stop in my pursuit long enough to pop one of my ribs back into place.  I don’t recommend it._

_The Naboo are his targets.  Or Anakin is.  Either way, I couldn’t allow him to succeed.  Too much is at stake.   I shudder to think of what the Sith would do with someone of Ani’s potential._

_I collected myself and set a Force-enhanced pace that would have made even Windu proud.  I couldn’t catch the Sith while still on the speeder, but I caught up to his ship with the ramp still down.  I dove inside, losing part of my tunic sleeve to the closing hatch._

_He realized I was coming for him, and dropped down blast doors thick enough that even my lightsaber wasn’t capable of melting through.  There is quite a bit of metal between the Sith in the cockpit and the Jedi in the cargo bay._

_I disabled his hyperdrive in retaliation.  I don’t yet know where we’re going, but he has no way to get to Coruscant now.  He can’t even leave this ship without opening up the blast doors once more, and then he gets to deal with me._

_I don’t care how many times I’ve dreamed of my death at this Sith’s hands.  I refuse to be the one to fall today._

_Or, well—in a few days.  At sublight, we’re not going very far very fast._

_I’ve tried getting a comm signal to Coruscant, but he’s jamming me, of course.  The only thing he didn’t jam was this datapad, which sends a low-power, low-frequency signal to your old digital mailbox._

_It’s sort of appropriate, I think, that while in a ship of the Sith, I can only communicate with the dead._

_I wish I had Garen’s coat.  It’s fucking cold in here._

_Yours,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

           

He put himself into a partial hibernation trance, the best he could manage when his body was already cold, tired, and run-down from the Naboo invasion and the Boonta Eve race.  When the ship settled to the ground on some foreign surface, he was awake in a blink, hyper-alert for whatever lay in wait. 

By the time the blast door slid open, Obi-Wan was standing in casual repose in the cargo bay, waiting for the Sith.

The Sith’s hood was off, his cloak discarded.  _Zabrak,_ Obi-Wan noted.  The Sith was hairless, and the sigil tattoos covered his entire scalp and neck. 

“Well, well.  You didn’t freeze, after all,” the Zabrak said.

“Actually, after Tatooine, I found the chill quite pleasant,” Obi-Wan replied, glancing down at his lightsaber and rubbing his thumb over the activation switch, as if in thought.  “Have a nice flight?”

In response, the Sith grinned, showing off a mouthful of rotten teeth, before touching the control panel he stood next to.  The hatch cycled open, revealing the gray durasteel of some sort of hangar bay.  “Shall we dance, Jedi?” he hissed.

Obi-Wan smiled.  “Do I get to lead?”

“Oh, yes.  I insist upon it,” the dark figure replied, igniting his Sith-red lightsaber once more.  Two steps were taken and he was in Obi-Wan’s range, and their lightsabers clashed together anew.

The Sith was just as fierce as Obi-Wan had first discovered, and it was a workout to keep the Sith’s blade at bay as he was forced to retreat backwards down the ship’s ramp.  The duracrete hangar floor under his feet was old and crumbling, which meant dire things for his footing. 

The Sith paused at the base of the ramp, and then gave Obi-Wan a smug, vile smile just before a second red blade emerged from the other end of his lightsaber.  Obi-Wan felt his breath catch in momentary horror.  A double-bladed lightsaber.  The Sith son of a bitch was going to hammer him to pieces with a _lightstaff._

 _I may have been wrong about that not dying bit,_ he thought, before the dance started anew.  This time, the Sith could strike from two directions, and Obi-Wan clenched his jaw and concentrated on meeting each one, focusing on his defense as he began teaching himself the style in which the Sith fought.  He parried; nasty bit from the Seventh form, judging by position.  Then his lightsaber was vertical to block; Rancor form. 

He should have expected it and didn’t, but by the time it happened it was too late.  The Sith’s blade twirled over his head; Obi-Wan ducked, and instead of the expected follow-through, the Sith shoved him with the Force.

Obi-Wan went flying, teeth clacking together painfully as he landed on his back and skidded along rough duracrete.  There was a hard lump under his sash that didn’t make the landing any kinder, leaving bruises across his spine and kidneys.

The Sith was laughing at him.  “I told you, Jedi.  Should have given me my prey.  Then you wouldn’t be losing this dance.”

Obi-Wan took a great gasp of air and reached under his back to find out what was bruising him, and habit took over.  He slipped his fingers under his sash and touched metal that was warm from the heat of his body.  The whisper of presence from the crystals was almost as familiar now as the resonance from his own blade.

Qui-Gon’s lightsaber.

Obi-Wan sat up, a wide smile on his face, as he pulled the second lightsaber from its hiding place before getting back on his feet.  He ignited the blade, casting a blue light from his right side and an emerald one from his left.  “You know what?”

The Sith narrowed his eyes.  “What?”

The smile became a grin.  “You’re no Yoda,” Obi-Wan confided, and raised his blades in shien Jar’Kai position.

 

*          *          *          *

           

_Dear Qui-Gon,_

_The Force is funny.  All of those times I dreamed of dying because you were not here with me, and the only thing it took to alter fate was the presence of your blade._

_Or perhaps I’m just being silly, and I might have won on my own._

_Either way, I’m alive.  The Sith is not.  In fact, the Sith is in two pieces—possibly three or four, as I think I nicked some horns at one point.  Once upon a time, you told me to start practicing my Jar’Kai when I went up against my Master in hyperactive Form VI.  You probably saved my life by suggesting such a thing.  Darth Maul, as he later identified himself, was indeed nowhere near the challenge that Master Yoda presents when he’s in the mood._

_However, I have no idea where the hell I am.   I opened the hangar doors and was confronted by arctic white, howling winds, and subzero temperatures.  Force, I think Hoth is more hospitable.  With no cold weather gear at hand, I chose to shut the doors and go see what else this place has to offer._

_Not much, as it turns out.  There is a small medical bay, where I tended to the one lightsaber wound I took.  I know, I know.  It’s not going to kill me, but my left side is not pleased that it took a hit, even one that is, given the weapon, fairly minor.  Bacta and synth-skin for now, and I’m trying to remember not to twist because the first time I forgot I almost passed out.  Also, the bastard scratched me.  Seriously, it was like being in a catfight without the cat.  There’s a long red line on my face, starting just below my eye and traveling down my right cheek to my chin.  I’ve cleaned it out, but it still burns.  If his fingernail grooming was anything like his oral hygiene, there’s no telling what kind of bacteria he plowed into my skin._

_There’s a communications room in a small tower that I can’t use.  Not yet, at least.  It’s pass-coded and locked up tight, but I think I may be able to break the encryption.  I hope so, anyway, as I have a transportation difficulty._

_The Sith’s ship is encrypted, and I have no chance of breaking it.  Maul scrambled the controls before confronting me, and the whole system screams of danger without even needing to be touched.  Booby-trapped, I imagine, and I doubt it’s a nice one.  More than likely the entire ship is rigged to blow, and I do not wish to blow up.  I am very happy about being in one piece today, and would like to stay that way._

_In a small room below the tower, there’s a cot with a few blankets and one pillow, and none of it’s the cleanest I’ve ever seen.  It looks like this place was just a byway, a resting pad for the Sith between…well, whatever it is that Sith do._

_This place doesn’t seem to have a designation written down anywhere, which might have provided me with a clue.  I’ve been running the numbers for the amount of time we traveled at sublight with a good guess on the Seinar engines the ship has, and…_

_Qui-Gon, there are no planets like this in range of Tatooine.  Either that ship is far faster than is currently technologically possible, or I’m on an orbital body that nobody fucking knows about but the Sith._

_In which case, I’d better get that communicator working, because not only does no one know where I am, no one else is likely to be landing on this little chunk of ice paradise._

_Except maybe the other Sith, if they’re following Bane’s Rule of Two.  Now there’s a cheerful thought._

_Damn, my face is still burning.  Lighting up my whole jaw.  Going to see if there are painkillers in that med bay, and maybe a good ol’ fashioned antibiotic.  I don’t need to be stranded and sick._

_All my love,_

_Obi-Wan_

_*          *          *          *_

_Qui-Gon,_

_Whoever designed the encryption for the communications system is earning my eternal willingness to hang him, her, or it upside down by the toenails.  This coding is insane.  It’s like the platform was built by a rabid Chadra-Fan who was hopped up on inhalants and caffeine._

_I feel run-down, and it’s probably the lack of sleep.  Didn’t sleep on the ship, dueled a Sith, and have spent the past twelve hours trying to unlock this damn system.  I want to go home, where my only company is not the two pieces of Sith I hauled outside and left to freeze in the snow.  He smelled bad enough as it was.  Sure as hell wasn’t going to leave him in here._

_I’m not cold, but it’s not the warmest, either.  Using one of the blankets in place of a coat is not a great substitute._

_Still no closer to determining my position.  I really am forced to conclude that this is just an uncharted little planetoid, circling some distant star.  Just enough oxygen and water outside to make permanent winter._

_Ugh.  Logy-headed.  Not good for coding.  Not a drop of caff in this place._

_Okay, I can unlock—_

—

—

—

**signal lost**

 

*          *          *          *

_He poisoned me.  The stinking, dead, obnoxious_ _Sith fucker poisoned_ _me._

_The scratch on my face is surrounded by angry red and horrible little purple lines.  Doesn’t look that bad, really, but there’s definitely something foreign in my system, and I’m having a hell of a lot of difficulty trying to isolate it.  Why?  Because I was stupid and kept mistaking it for exhaustion, because that’s all it felt like until I passed out on the control panel up in the tower._

_Now I’m exhausted and ill._

_This has not been my week._

_*          *          *          *_

_Medical bay is not well-stocked for poisoning victims.  Found the actual poison, though.  Nifty stuff, in the chemical curiosity sense.  I wonder if he resisted scratching himself, or if he built up a tolerance to it before he started tipping his nails with it?  It hardens when it dries, so he was always walking around with an extra killing weapon to hand.  (You know you’d laugh.  I’m laughing.  What else can I do?)_

_Running a fever that none of the antipyretics can touch.  Starting to get blurry-eyed, which is Not Helping the damned Coding Problem!  I can’t fix it if I can’t read it!_

_Going to go try to rest, to meditate, to trance down and find this annoying little poison and get rid of it.  Could use a few dozen good wishes and a miracle._

_I am quite honestly concerned that the Sith may well have killed me, after all._

_Love you._

_*          *          *          *_

_I think this is the last missive I’m going to be able to send.  I’m shaking so fhard that typing is difficult and I can’t really see what I’m riting.  Trying to type by touch alone on the keypbad, so if this message is garbled, well, who cares?  No one will ever read it unless Dex re-hacks it out of curiosity.  (Please, Dex, no not read backwards beyond Naboo if you start out with the current entry.  Really.  Just—spare my sensibilities and your tender ers.)_

_Deserve it a bit, probably.  I let it go ftoo far, too fasat, or misunderstood how fast the poison was hitting me or—fuckit.  Dying in a vcery stupid way, do not need to compound this by saying stupid things or trying to make piffpoor exchuses.  The sith may have one whtis round, but he won’t ever Sith again, so I’m calling this a draw._

_Encrytipon tower was a ewipe.  I think I may have unlocked two shystems, but the only receiving signal I got was static, and there were no responses to the few broadcasts I tried.  All I can do is have faith in Ani, and the Naboo, and the Council, to Not Screw This U p.  The Sith have only ever reappeared whemn they felt strong enough to compete, and if two Sith they think strong enough to take on tejh entire Jedi Temple, then we are seriously fucked._

_This is depressing._

_What a stupid fucking way to die._

_K reserve the right to close my eyes and think of you, because it is fafr preferable to everything else.  The galaxy can go take a flying fuck.  I’m going to sleep, and if I get lucky I can trance down far enough that I won’t feel the wrost of this poiston, because it already hurtsl like a bitch._

_I hope I see you agani._

_I love thee, Qui-Gon Jinn, adn will even after my breath is gone._

_*          *          *          *_

 

He was burning up, and yet he’d never felt more distant from his body.  Despite the fire that was raging, everything seemed quiet.  Preternaturally quiet.  He wasn’t dead, since the dead didn’t feel pain (he hoped), so it was likely…that he was close.  Yes, that felt right.

Close.

He was hallucinating, too, since he kept hearing someone talking to him.  As hallucinations went, it was rather nice, so he didn’t fight that one.  The soft words were soothing, a wonderful contrast to the horrible pain in his head and the heavy, weighted sensation in his closed eyes. 

A hand that felt much cooler than his own skin was touching his forehead, and the vast difference in temperature made him sigh.  Bliss.  Regular body temperature was _bliss._

Water touched his lips; he didn’t even need to drink it, as his parched body just absorbed it.  Sith poisons were not kind.  The water hallucination was.  Maybe he’d managed to trance down just far enough.

“Obi-Wan, I need you to do something for me.”

The words made him frown, as he wasn’t really in the position to do anything for anybody.  The hand on his forehead moved, brushing through the bristle on his cheek instead.  If Obi-Wan could have turned his head, he would have, but managed only a faint murmur of pleasure at the contact.

“I need you to live, Obi-Wan.”  The words were only the faintest sound against his ear, a warm stirring of breath.

He sighed again, and felt tears leak from beneath his closed eyelids, too-hot drops sliding down the sides of his face to dampen his hair.  “You always ask impossible things of me, Qui-Gon,” he whispered.

“I know,” that beloved voice whispered back.  “But do it anyway.  Live for me?”

 _I wanted to,_ he thought, and then he was surrendering to darkness and fever-dreams once more.

He felt like he was trapped beneath unbearable weight, pressure that was slowly crushing breath and life out of his body.  Obi-Wan gasped for what little air he could get and passed out in relief when it came, strong jets of a cool breeze that provided oxygen far faster than his dying body was managing on its own. 

The Sith poison made him feel aware, yet distant, muffled and suffocating under dark red threads that burned everything they touched. 

He felt life, felt warmth, sensed coldness just beyond metal walls…and in the distance he saw Light itself, glorious and beautiful.

It was so hard to make himself turn from it, to do as he’d been asked.  All Obi-Wan wanted was to fling himself towards the Force, searching for the choice that had been taken from him just as a decision had been made. 

No.  

No.  He was a Jedi, if one in dire distress.  If he was capable of surviving, then he would do so—and then he would write to Qui-Gon, sending his love angry letters about bossiness and appropriate timing.

Slowly, so slowly, the burning fire was subsiding, leaving ash and char in its wake.  There were voices again, more than one, and the damage was gentled, softened.    He began to feel, oddly, like the first tuft of spiky, stubborn grass emerging from the charred ground after a wildfire.  There was no sound in the act, but it was defiance personified.

Real sleep, when it came, was velvet soft relief, a blessed shroud of true darkness to soothe what had been burned.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan opened his eyes to a world that was infinitely less painful, and far more visible, than the one he remembered leaving.  The light was low, but the details of the ceiling were clear, with no hint of the blur that had forced him to give up on his work and focus more on surviving.  The last thing he remembered with any real clarity was crawling into that smelly cot.

He managed to turn his head to the right, and caught sight of Adi Gallia standing at a med bay terminal that he recognized—he was still on that unknown planetoid.  The last he knew, his location had been a mystery to himself and to the universe at large…and yet, he’d been found.    

He must have made some sound; Adi turned and grinned broadly at him.  “Hey, the sleeper awakens!” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice soft.  “How do you feel, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan considered the question for a moment.  “Spiffy,” he croaked.  As far as he was concerned, he was in fantastic shape.  He’d expected to be dead, after all. 

“I’m glad,” Adi said, and then offered him a cup with a straw.  Cool water was like ambrosia, and his body soaked it up like he’d spent a year in a desert instead of a few days.

She helped him to sit up, which was good, because there was no way in hell he was going to manage on his own.  The world swam for a moment before things settled, more or less, into their proper places.  With his arm slung over Adi’s shoulders, they made a trip to the tiny ‘fresher set into a corner of the med bay, and he emptied a bladder that felt like it had been filled with _rocks_.  It never occurred to him to be embarrassed about weakness or nudity around Master Adi.  Hell, she knew he’d slept with her Padawan.  She’d given him tea the next morning and had asked him teasing, merciless questions.  The time for awkwardness had passed long ago.

By the time he made it back to the bunk in the med bay, he was trembling all over and fighting to keep his eyes open.  Not even the prospect of more water was enough to stop him from collapsing in a boneless heap back into bed.  “How did you find me?” he managed to rasp out, using fierce curiosity to fend off the overpowering feel of impending sleep.

“Funny you should ask,” Adi said, smiling, but unconsciousness struck before he could hear anything more.

 

*          *          *          *

 

There was fog.  He was standing in it with his teeth bared, because what was on the other side of that misty veil was Dark, far stronger than the threat Maul had represented. 

_You have not stopped anything._

Obi-Wan grinned, the expression feral and fierce.  _I stopped something, or you wouldn’t be bothering me._

 _You think yourself strong?  You know nothing, you_ are _nothing,_ said the voice, a nasty whisper of malice.

 _I know that I’ve pissed you off,_ Obi-Wan taunted in return.  _And I know who I am.  I am a Jedi, and you’re just a fucking phantom!_

The mist swirled.  _Jedi can die,_ the Darkness hissed, and that cloudy veil rushed towards him, surrounded him, and there was no place to turn…

Obi-Wan sat up, gasping, one hand clutching at his heart, his other hand flung out—

—and was captured by another, who held his hand in a firm grasp, and spoke to him with a voice Obi-Wan had never expected to hear again in life.  “Easy!  Easy, it’s gone, whatever it was.”

His heart had already been thudding in his chest, and at those words it gave one great leap as his breath stilled.  Obi-Wan turned his head, feeling tendons creak in protest, and felt his jaw come unhinged.

“Qui-Gon?”

Because it was Qui-Gon Jinn—perhaps a bit greyer, but undoubtedly recognizable.  His hair was shorter than Obi-Wan had ever seen, not quite at shoulder-level, and on his face was far more scruff than actual beard.  But his eyes were the same, and at the moment they were filled with amused concern.  “You should close your mouth, lest you swallow an insect.”

“You’re _alive,_ ” Obi-Wan whispered, closing his mouth, if only to swallow and moisten a tongue and throat gone stone dry in shock. 

“And so are you,” Qui-Gon pointed out, a hint of a smile on his face.  “Given that we were both expected to be, or have been, deceased, I would say that puts us on even footing.”

Memory came flooding back, a shard of light among the wasting fever dreams that had chased him down into darkness.  “You spoke to me.”

“I did,” Qui-Gon affirmed.  He was still holding Obi-Wan’s hand in both of his own, and his fingertips were now moving, massaging Obi-Wan’s skin.

“You saved my life.”

Qui-Gon nodded, the smile vanishing, and for the first time the full depth of his concern for Obi-Wan shone in his eyes.  “If I hadn’t had help, nothing would have saved you, love.  It took Adi and young Skywalker’s aid to clear that toxin from your body.”

“Ani?” Obi-Wan blinked in disbelief.  “Anakin’s here?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon said, and a wry smile lit his face.  “He is just as amazing as you wrote, Obi-Wan, and I daresay is going to drive Master Yoda insane.  The old troll has given Anakin a year’s probation under his tutelage, to see if he has the strength to be a Jedi, not just a trained Force Adept.  Of course, Anakin refused to even consider starting that arrangement until we found you.”

Obi-Wan’s head was practically spinning.  Qui-Gon had read his letters.  Qui-Gon was here with Anakin, and Adi Gallia.  Qui-Gon had been the one to find him, he knew.

Qui-Gon had lived beyond Ord Vaug.  Which meant…  “Your mailbox.  It had a tracer, a program that could backtrack received files and relay their point of origin.” 

Once more, he received a nod of confirmation.  “You never told me,” Obi-Wan accused, wondering why he felt deceived about something that had just saved his life.

Qui-Gon shrugged.  “It never occurred to me that it was necessary.”

“Right,” Obi-Wan said, shaking off that dismal sense of miasma.  He had far more important things in mind.  “You’ve…read all those letters?”

“Every single one of them, over and over again.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “They were well-received, then?”

Qui-Gon smiled back.  “Very well-received.”

The smile became a grin.  “Then give me a proper hello, you ass.”

Qui-Gon did, and as kisses went, it did not have the thrill of the one they had once shared upon a windy landing platform.  However, it was gentle, tender, and full of the promise of life, and therefore it would become one of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s most treasured memories.

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin did his best not to clobber Obi-Wan when Adi brought him in for a visit, but it was a near thing.  Obi-Wan hugged the enthusiastic boy, listening as Anakin blathered on at about a light year a minute about what had happened after he’d left Tatooine.

“And you didn’t tell me Coruscant is so big!” Anakin said, and paused and gave Obi-Wan a sulky look.  “‘Go to the Jedi Temple,’ he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world!  I had to _find it_ first, Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan grinned.  “Sorry.  If you grow up there, you sort of get used to Coruscant’s size.  But you must have succeeded.”

“Yeah.”  Anakin’s cheeks turned pink.  “Padmé and Sabé took one look at Coruscant and decided that wading through the Senate District looked far more daunting than going to the Temple District, so we all wound up at the Temple instead.  It made things easier, if…weirder.  I mean, you’re okay, but I’ve never been around that many Jedi or Force sensitives or anything like that before and it’s wizard, but how do you all stand being so close together?” Anakin exclaimed the last, his eyes huge.

Obi-Wan looked up at Adi, glanced over at Qui-Gon, noticing that the other Jedi in the room looked almost as baffled as he felt.  “I…suppose we’re used to that, too?” he hedged, not really having a true idea as to what Anakin was talking about.  “I understand that Master Yoda has shown interest in teaching you,” he said, and gratefully accepted another cup of water when his throat went hoarse.  He was still trying to rehydrate his system from what had to have been a devastating fever.

“Uh-huh,” Anakin said, though he looked far more thoughtful than enthused about the prospect.  “The Council gave me some sort of test, and then asked me why I wanted to be a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan managed a smile, despite the exhaustion that was quickly creeping back up on him.  “What did you say?”

“Well, I remembered what you said, about not needing power to help people.  I was thinking about it a lot on the ship, when I wasn’t pestering Ric about flying her.  Nubians are wicked wizard, by the way,” Ani added with a grin.  “But when I was supposed to say why I wanted to be a Jedi, I wasn’t even sure that being one _was_ still what I wanted to be.  So I said that I just wanted to be able to learn what I could do with all of this Force-stuff, so that when it was all done, I could help people to the best of my ability instead of worrying about power an’ stuff.”

Obi-Wan raised both eyebrows in surprise.  “No wonder you caught my Master’s attention.  Good answer, Ani.”

“It was?” Anakin asked, his eyes lighting up.  “I mean, I was hoping so, but don’t those Council members ever _smile?_ ”

Adi grinned down at Ani.  “There’s a law against smiling in the Council Chamber.  I’ve been trying to have it repealed, but no luck so far.”

Anakin looked up at her and frowned.  “Are you pulling my leg?”

“Maybe, but I _will_ be pulling on your hand.  Obi-Wan is still recovering, and is already too tired to continue a conversation with someone of your massive energy levels,” the Councilor said, giving Anakin a gentle, friendly nudge.  “Tell him good night, and we’ll see him again in the morning.”

Anakin nodded.  “Okay.  G’nite, Obi-Wan.  G’nite, Master Qui-Gon.”

The moment the door had closed behind Adi and Anakin, Obi-Wan turned to Qui-Gon.  “Master?”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “I suppose I didn’t mention it yet, did I?  I arrived in the Temple only a day or so ahead of the Naboo delegation.  I believe Mace kept the Council debating for six hours before making a great show of reluctance about allowing my return to the Order.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “I did rather loudly think, once, that it would take something extraordinary to compel you to return.  Between the Sith and Anakin’s potential, extraordinary is just about covered.”

“Anakin and the Sith returning are indeed remarkable things, Obi-Wan, but they are not what brought me back to the Order.  I had already begun the journey to Coruscant before you arrived on Tatooine,” Qui-Gon said, gazing at Obi-Wan, a depth of serenity in his eyes that had long been absent.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan grinned.  “Bored with painting, Sir C’rell?”

“No.”

“Finished the thesis on ancient prophecy and can’t get it published without Order backing?”

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “No.  And also, no.  I doubt I’ll finish it even if I live to be a century and a half.”

“Boredom?”

“Hardly.”

“Then I’m out of guesses,” Obi-Wan shrugged.  “What changed your mind, Qui-Gon?  What brought you back to the Jedi?”

Qui-Gon sighed in exasperation.  “You, you idiot,” he said, leaning forward and kissing Obi-Wan once more.  For a moment he was too flabbergasted to participate, and then he realized what had been said and jerked his head back.  “What?  Me?”

 “Yes, you,” Qui-Gon said patiently.

“But—why _me?_ ” Obi-Wan asked, still too shocked to feel much else.  “I’m nothing special.”

“Oh, nothing special, hmm?” Qui-Gon sat back in his chair, crossing his arms, the expression on his face one he used when he was about to deliver a fine sermon of sarcasm.  “Taken in by not one, but _two_ Masters, both of whom had sworn they would never teach an apprentice again?  Being first among your peers to not only graduate from scholastic studies, but figure out one of the biggest tricksters in the Order, as well as passing with one of the highest grade point averages in the last five decades?  The first Padawan to request his Trials before the Council in three centuries?  One of a rare cadre of humanoids to be Knighted before seeing their twentieth birthday?  The man who finds one of the most gifted Force-bearing individuals of this age?  Not to mention giving this individual and his family freedom, but also passing on a lesson that will likely resound in Anakin’s thoughts for the rest of his life?  Defeater of the first Sith Lord seen by the galaxy in a thousand years?  Did you know,” and Qui-Gon leaned forward, pinning him with merciless glare, “that they are already calling you “Sith Killer” in the Temple?”

 _Sith Killer?_   “Oh, no,” Obi-Wan groaned, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. 

“Oh, yes,” Qui-Gon retorted.  “Obi-Wan Kenobi—no, there’s not possibly anything special about him, is there?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, biting his lip against the smile he was fighting.  “Enough, enough!  You’ve made your point!”

“No, not quite,” Qui-Gon said, and his voice was soft again, the sarcasm gone.  He reached out and touched Obi-Wan’s cheek.  Obi-Wan lifted his head, looking for and being caught by cerulean blue eyes, full of love and a fair amount of sadness.  “If you thank me for saving your life, then I must thank you as well.  I really don’t know if I would still be alive were it not for the letters that you kept sending me, even when you thought that I would never answer them.”

Obi-Wan blew out a slow, unsteady breath.  “Tell me,” he said, and this time when Qui-Gon’s lips touched his own, he participated in the kiss, almost breaking down in tears at the warm, comfortable familiarity of the mourned for but never forgotten sensation.

Somehow, they made enough room on the narrow med bunk to lie down together.  Obi-Wan rested his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, feeling the heat of the other man’s body from chest to feet as they lay, limbs entwined.  Slowly, Qui-Gon began to speak about Ord Vaug, and the horror that began the moment the negotiations failed.

“There were two other negotiators with me, a man and woman who had volunteered to stay despite the increasing danger.  We still had hope that we could reconcile the Vaug with the Yintee, even if things looked dire.  But when diplomatic relations collapsed entirely, the Vaug captured the three of us.  I could have escaped, perhaps, but I had no way to get the others out with me.  So I stayed with them, hoping an opportunity would present itself.”  He sighed.  “They weren’t trained to be fighters, no matter how highly others thought of Jiree and Dav’s diplomatic credentials.”

“But you tried,” Obi-Wan said, and used his right arm, slung over Qui-Gon’s waist, to give the older man a short, abbreviated embrace. 

Qui-Gon nodded.  “I did, and almost died for it.  For a time, everyone was certain I _had_ died, thus the lightsaber you received.  The last thing I remember, after it was ripped from my grasp, was feeling the bones in my hand snapping under the weight of someone’s foot.”  He paused, and Obi-Wan could feel Qui-Gon centering his thoughts as he relived that moment and then set it aside once more.  The words alone were enough to make him shiver, and offer wordless, Force-borne sympathy.  Qui-Gon acknowledged the comfort with a Force-touch of his own, as gentle and as warm as a light summer breeze.

“A local witch named Shadrin, a healer for one of the villages, was saying prayers over the dead when she realized that while I looked rather…cadaverous, I was still alive.  She later described it to me, saying that she could see only three threads of my life-force holding me to my body, but it was enough to convince her that the attempt to save me should be made.  Shadrin smuggled me away from the bodies meant for the pyres, and hid me within her home.  I was in…deplorable shape.”  Qui-Gon snorted an amused, self-deprecating laugh.  “Despite her care, I didn’t wake for weeks.  When I did, the Force seemed absent.  It was like trying to swim through great depths to sense it, as my connection to the Force was just as damaged as my body.”

“That was why no one could find you—why Yoda couldn’t find you in the Force,” Obi-Wan whispered, and his heart hurt anew at the thought, followed by horrible guilt.  “I’m so sorry,” he said.  “I should have—”

“Even if you, or anyone else, had come searching for me that first year, it’s doubtful you would have found me,” Qui-Gon said, and stirred; a moment later Obi-Wan felt a kiss planted in his hair, which brought fresh tears to his eyes. 

“Shadrin acquired a datapad capable of receiving data to give to me, so that I could keep myself occupied while waiting that long, slow time for my injuries to heal.  By then, Judicial had taken over the planet in order to end hostilities, and part of their efforts included jamming outgoing signals.  No one wanted a rogue Vaug to call in a group of pirates or mercenaries to help restart the conflict. 

“I had no identification, no lightsaber, and a long way to go towards even looking like myself again.  Even the idea of Mind-tricking one of Judicial’s ilk was out; I could scarcely light a candle that first year.  All I had were letters from you.  You were my bright point in the middle of a long, dark time.”

“M’glad,” Obi-Wan murmured, and realized that, between the heat of Qui-Gon’s body and the soft rumble of his voice, Obi-Wan was well on his way towards passing out again, whether he liked it or not.

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “I will not be offended if you sleep, you know.  Shadrin informed me rather tartly that those who’ve come too close to the border between life and death need quite a bit of it, so that their life’s threads have time to reattach themselves.”

“Makes sense,” Obi-Wan mumbled, not foolish enough to resist an outright invitation to do what his body was demanding.  He tried to say good night, but didn’t manage more than an unintelligible slur before his eyes closed.

The last thing he heard was Qui-Gon whispering, “I missed you,” against his hair.

 

*          *          *          *

 

When he awoke the next morning, the sheets had been tucked up over his shoulders, and he was alone in bed but for a datapad.  Obi-Wan rubbed sleep from his eyes and picked it up, noting as he did so that he felt better—far better than he had in days.  Perhaps weeks.

Perhaps years.

He turned on the datapad to discover that on its screen was a message:

_Obi-Wan,_

_Join us upstairs in the tower when you awake.  There is something I want to see with you._

_Qui-Gon_

_PS – I find clothing to be optional, but Adi and young Anakin might object.  Your things (cleaned) are in the locker on the far wall to your left._

Obi-Wan realized he was grinning foolishly at the datapad, shut it down, and dropped it on the bed.  He could walk more or less without trembling, and dressed himself in his own clothes and Garen’s old coat, which must have been reclaimed from the Naboo. 

As he shoved his feet into his boots, Obi-Wan realized that clothing had included both his lightsaber and Qui-Gon’s, still attached to his belt where he had left them—even if said belt had last been slung over the bars of the Sith’s stinky cot before he’d collapsed.

The miniature lift was a gods-send, because stairs would have certainly been beyond his ability.  He was getting better, recovering from the death Maul had tried to give him, but it would likely be weeks before he was truly ready to return to active duty.

He wondered how much of that time he would have with Qui-Gon before it was gone.

The tower held Anakin, who was sitting at the primary terminal and sulking at whatever was on the screen; Adi Gallia, who was typing on a datapad of her own, but looked up to smile a greeting at him; and Qui-Gon, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders, handed Obi-Wan a mug that was steaming and smelled of fragrant tea, and said:  “Look.”

The winds that had been howling nonstop upon Obi-Wan’s arrival had all but ceased, and his view from the tower was unobstructed for the very first time.  On the farthest tip of the horizon, the very first tinges of violet-pink light could be seen.  “Oh,” he whispered, and felt old joy surge up within himself.  “Sunrise.”

“And they’re quite lovely,” Qui-Gon murmured into Obi-Wan’s ear.  Obi-Wan smiled, sipped his tea (perfection!) and sighed as he gladly settled his weight against the line of Qui-Gon’s body.  Beginning in the second year of his apprenticeship, Qui-Gon had begun to insist that they saw every new sunrise, of each new planet, together.  At fourteen, he had grumbled.  At fifteen, he had begun to realize the simple beauty in the act, though he still despised the early waking and lack of sleep.

Now, he merely watched as violet-pink became orange, and rays of the sun eventually emerged to brighten the white landscape that lay below.  Arctic sunrises tended to be among the most incredible in creation, and this one was exceptional, blues and greens mixed in among the pale orange and yellow.

“So, where the hell am I?” Obi-Wan asked, once he was seated comfortably in a chair.  His legs had begun to tremble before the sun had finished rising, and he was already chafing at his weakness, despite hearing from Adi that he would likely suffer from it for weeks to come.  It was one more good reason to make up creative, nasty names for the happily deceased Darth Maul.

“It doesn’t have a name, so for now it’s just designated as P-4968,” Adi said, setting her datapad aside.  Qui-Gon’s warm hands were resting on his shoulders, and that simple touch did more for Obi-Wan’s state of mind, and potential recovery, than any med.  “There is some background data in the Archives that suggests it was known to the Republic once before, but as its primary features are snow, ice, and wind, it slipped into obscurity.”

“Nothing of geological significance, or trade route placement, to warrant any use at all.  It gave the Sith a perfect hiding place,” Qui-Gon added.

“So it’s official—the Council is in agreement that Maul was a Sith?”

Adi narrowed her eyes.  “I’ll admit it, Qui-Gon admits it—hell, even young Anakin knows evil when he sees it,” she said, a near-growl in her normally serene voice.  “The Council at large, however, remains unconvinced, and wishes to believe that he is merely a self-trained abnormality.”

“Ah.”  Obi-Wan found himself struggling with his temper for a moment, but managed to speak without venom.  “I should consider myself fortunate to have been rescued, then.”

Qui-Gon snorted.  “I had no qualms about coming to your aid by myself, if need be.  However, Master Yoda stood up and declared to the entire Council that he was going to save his favorite Padawan, and if they wanted to stop him, they were welcome to attempt to get in his way.  Wisely, no one decided to challenge him.”

“And I volunteered to accompany them both, since we knew, thanks to your letters, that at the very least we had a body to examine,” Adi continued.  “Thus, we traveled in two ships.  Master Yoda stayed long enough to be certain that you would live, and then took Maul’s body with him back to Coruscant.  We haven’t received word on results yet, but I want to hear Ki-Adi dare say that the Sith are extinct when Yoda drops one at his feet,” she declared.

Obi-Wan smiled tightly.  “Words, hell, Adi—I want a _holo_ of that moment.”

Anakin giggled, which made Obi-Wan realize the boy wasn’t oblivious to their conversation after all, just circumspect.  It was something that likely had served him well as a slave, and would continue to help him as a potential Jedi trainee. 

“What are you up to, then?” he asked Anakin.

“Uh—coding.  Or decoding.  I’m trying to use the systems you cracked a few days ago to break into the rest, but this computer is stupid and doesn’t understand Basic.”  Anakin glowered at the terminal, much as Obi-Wan had while trying not to succumb to the raging fever.  “Master Adi and Master Qui-Gon tried, but, uhm…I’m better at it than they are,” Anakin said, ducking his head shyly.

“Don’t denigrate your skills, Anakin,” Qui-Gon told the boy, his voice a soothing rumble.  “There is no shame in being capable.”

“I know,” Anakin ducked his head again, reminding Obi-Wan once more that despite his talents, the boy was still only eight Standard.  “But it’s weird.  I mean, you guys are _Jedi_.  You should be better than me.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan wanted to know, sensing another key point about to reveal itself.  “Because you were a slave?”

Anakin opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and then stopped.  He tilted his head.  “I was about to say something really stupid, right?”

“Not stupid, just ingrained,” Obi-Wan reassured him.  He glanced at Adi.  “Am I allowed to help, Madame Healer?”

Adi smiled.  “Stay in the chair and behave yourself, and you may.  I doubt, however, that you feel up to much of anything at the moment.”

Obi-Wan nodded ruefully, realizing with a start that he hadn’t even eaten yet.  Not that his body was signaling hunger; in fact, his body was trying to tell him that even the tea had been a bad idea.  _Shut up, you,_ he told his stomach firmly.

“Adi and I are still documenting this structure, so we’ll be in and out of the tower during the next few hours,” Qui-Gon said, his hands squeezing Obi-Wan’s shoulders gently.  “Anakin knows how to call if he needs us.  If you gain an appetite and start to think the chairs are nutritional, we can break for an early lunch.”

“I am not eating the chair, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Obi-Wan said, rolling his eyes, but his protest earned him a kiss on the top of his head and another shoulder squeeze, so the grumbling had certainly been worthwhile.  “Wait.”

Qui-Gon paused, confused, and then held very still as Obi-Wan placed Qui-Gon’s lightsaber in the other man’s hand.  “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Well, it is yours,” Obi-Wan drawled, giving Qui-Gon a lopsided smile.  “If I ever decide I need a second one that badly, I can build one that actually fits my hand.”

Qui-Gon grinned and then stooped down to give Obi-Wan a swift, searing kiss.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Obi-Wan replied, his heart feeling lighter.  Being able to give the lightsaber back to Qui-Gon was something he’d never expected to be able to do.

He moved the chair so as to sit next to Anakin, watching the boy scroll through the data readouts, and before long they were both so engrossed that they barely noticed when Adi and Qui-Gon departed.  After an hour, though, Obi-Wan was forced to concede that it hadn’t been just illness that had kept him from deciphering the foreign code.  “I’m at a loss,” he confided.

“Yeah, me too,” Anakin said, sighing, and set the readouts to scroll from beginning to end again automatically.  “I thought maybe I’d be able to do comparisons from the translated code, but it’s…it’s like it doesn’t even follow language patterns.”

“Maybe it doesn’t?” Obi-Wan suggested, stifling a yawn.  “Not all codes are based on speech patterns.  Some are just in computer binary, or astromech binary.  There are others,” he yawned again and frowned, “that rely on mathematics.  And I wish I could tell you which code type opened up that part of communications, because I have no idea.  I did a lot of guessing, and took a few hints from the Force.”

Anakin was chewing on his lower lip, considering Obi-Wan’s words.  “Not a language.  Or at least, not coded like a language.  That actually kinda helps.  Thanks, Obi-Wan.”

“You’re welcome,” Obi-Wan said, leaning over to rest his head on his arms.  His intention had only been to hide his eyes in order to comfort his head, which was still not pleased with the universe.  Instead, he passed out.

He woke up to the feel of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.  “Why didn’t you just go back to bed?” Qui-Gon said, his voice light and teasing.

“What?” Obi-Wan raised his head, looking blearily up…and then turned his head in surprise.  It was fully dark outside.  “Shit.”

Qui-Gon smiled.  “Come along, my foul-mouthed Knight.  Time for dinner.”

Obi-Wan shook his head and stood up, trying to throw off the reins of exhaustion that wanted to call him right back to slumber.  “Sounds fantastic.  And I do not have a foul mouth, Sir Swears-in-Durese.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Durese,” Qui-Gon said, stepping onto the mini-lift after allowing Obi-Wan to precede him.

“Oh, no, nothing at all,” Obi-Wan said, fighting a smile.  “They have thirteen words for ‘fuck,’ as opposed to the more conservative Hutts, who have a mere six.”

Qui-Gon seemed to sigh.  “Obi-Wan.”

“Hmm?”  Obi-Wan turned to look at the man, only to find himself captured in an embrace.  In less than a heartbeat there were lips on his own, moving with insistent, firm pressure that made Obi-Wan’s nerves light up like a night skyline. 

The kiss ended, and Qui-Gon rested his forehead against Obi-Wan’s, his hand still resting on the back of Obi-Wan’s neck.  “I missed you.”

“I noticed,” Obi-Wan murmured.  He could feel Qui-Gon’s arousal, even tapered down, and was chagrined to realize that while he’d enjoyed the past few moments, his body didn’t seem to have much interest in the standard physical response.

“Give it time,” Qui-Gon said, nuzzling Obi-Wan’s temple with his lips.  “Don’t blame yourself for needing to recover.  I am a patient man.”

Obi-Wan smiled, reassured and amused, as he realized the lift had come to a stop quite some time ago.  “We’re being stared at,” he said, sensing Adi and Anakin’s eyes upon them.

Qui-Gon lifted his head and turned his gaze upon their witnesses.  “Do I need to sell tickets?”

“No!” Anakin exclaimed immediately.

Adi, on the other hand, looked far too interested.  “Would you?”

“No,” Obi-Wan retorted, rolling his eyes.  “Go rent porn like a normal Jedi Master, would you?”

“Not in front of the child,” Adi remonstrated.

Then it was Anakin’s turn to roll his eyes.  “Master Adi, I’m from Tatooine.  Hutts.  Slaves.  Brothels.”

Adi sighed and turned, walking towards the ship parked in the hangar behind Maul’s former vessel.  “Oh, the other Padawans and Initiates are going to love you.”

Anakin gave Obi-Wan a confused look.  “What’s she mean?”

“It means that when the other kids come to you to start asking about brothels, sex, or anything else along those categories, you should have a bartering system worked out in advance,” Obi-Wan said, ignoring the raised eyebrow that Qui-Gon was giving him.

Anakin frowned.  “You guys are _weird._ ”

Obi-Wan found himself grinning with pleasure at the notion.

Over dinner, held in the ship and away from the musty, dusty smell of the old hangar, he finally learned what had happened to his Naboo charges and nearly passed soup through his nose.  “She did _what?_ ”

Adi smiled, her eyes dancing as she explained.  “Governor Amidala, Padmé as you know her, managed to collect a quartet of Jedi Knights from the Council after informing all of us of her planet’s plight.  Master Yarael wanted to claim that the Naboo invasion was a Senate matter.  That girl turned to him and demanded to know when the Jedi had begun to need permission from the Senate to protect Republic citizens under their charge.”

Obi-Wan pointed his spoon at her.  “When we get back to Coruscant, I’m going through the archives and watching that footage.”

“It was rather nice to see,” Adi said, grinning.  “Amidala convinced the Council to help boot the Trade Federation off of her planet, skipping the necessity of asking the Senate for aid.  She did, however, go before that lovely body of individuals to inform them of the Federation’s unlawful actions.”

Obi-Wan grimaced when his stomach turned over, blatantly refusing any more food.  He hadn’t even managed a quarter of the soup.  He switched to water, instead, which his body seemed to still be soaking up like rain onto parched earth.  “How long did it take Dodd to contest her?”

“Three seconds,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes narrowed.  “I saw some interesting by-play between Senator Palpatine and Padmé in the news feeds, but since we elected to come here as she was leaving for Naboo, I’m not yet sure what it was about.”

There was an uneasy, prickling sensation along his spine at Qui-Gon’s words.  “Nothing good, I’ll bet.”

“Either way, four Jedi were not quite enough to take down the Federation’s droid army.  At least, not until the Gungans got involved,” Adi explained.

Obi-Wan frowned; there had been a mention of another native species on Naboo, something aquatic and very separatist.  “The Federation must have really done something to annoy them.”

“Started bombing their underwater cities,” Qui-Gon confirmed.  “When Knight Friere located their forces hiding in a swamp, Padmé asked them to join with her to get rid of the Federation.  The team hasn’t yet reported what was said, but it was effective.  Padmé got an army of her own, planned a three-stage attack, and captured the Federation’s on-planet leadership.  Current word is there’s a stalemate between the Control Ship and the Governor, but as she has a roomful of blasters pointed at Nute Gunray, I doubt there will be a Federation presence on Naboo for much longer.”

“When Mom said that Sabé and Padmé were good at plotting, I totally thought she meant something else,” Anakin added with a huge grin.  “They are totally wizard!”

Their return to the ship meant sleeping in a ship’s berth instead of the med-bay.  Qui-Gon had found, if not the longest bed, then at least a wider one than Obi-Wan was used to seeing.   

Part of Obi-Wan was still in wide-eyed shock that he had the other man in his life again, but it was constantly being overshadowed by the vague ache of his still-healing, exhausted body.  He lay awake for awhile, much as he had last night, listening to the soothing rumble of Qui-Gon’s voice. 

Qui-Gon had spent his second year on Ord Vaug working odd jobs under an assumed identity.  Once Judicial had left, the Vaug had immediately taken over that region once more, and escaping off-planet had become nigh impossible.

“Bad timing,” Obi-Wan commented wryly.

“Judicial leaving the moment I decide to try to contact them?  Oh, yes,” Qui-Gon sighed.  “It certainly made things difficult.  The Yintee underground knew of my existence, thanks to Shadrin, but there was little they could do to help.  Communications were still limited to incoming only, since Ord Vaug was now a blockaded planet for Republic safety.”  He snorted his opinion of that, his fingers tightening on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. 

“My life that year was very simple:  Avoid the Vaug, scrape enough credit together to use for bribing my way out of the port, regain my physical strength, retrain my senses, and inadvertently set up a rebellion for the Yintee to overthrow the Vaug upper class.”

Obi-Wan grinned.  “Whoops?”

Qui-Gon smiled.  “Well, when all else fails, aggressive negotiations are called for.”

“Must have been interesting to perform them without a lightsaber,” Obi-Wan said, trying not to snicker. 

“Words can be just as effective as a blade,” Qui-Gon said primly, but ruined the effect by chuckling.  “I was in a café one day that year when I looked up, surprised to realize that I _recognized_ that young, bearded Knight who was mouthing off to some of the Senate Commerce Committee members.  I was amazed, and very proud of you, both in that moment and when I received your letter.  You were also the hit of the evening Yintee crowd, both for your moment on the ’Net, and because I revealed to them that you were the man who held my heart.”

Obi-Wan’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, and his heart stuttered in his chest, stilling his breath for a moment.  The words had been casual, but the meaning behind them, and the feelings he could sense from Qui-Gon in that moment, were almost overwhelming. 

“I love you,” Obi-Wan said, and the sentence felt completely inadequate. 

“I love you, as well,” Qui-Gon replied, turning so that they were face to face once more.  Then Obi-Wan was being kissed, slowly, sensually, with just a flicking hint of a tongue upon his lips.  Qui-Gon’s free hand was in his hair, playing with the unruly strands, massaging his scalp, tracing the curve of his ear. 

Obi-Wan sighed, a long, humming note of cat-like pleasure.  This was what he’d missed, this strong, peaceful connection that made him feel like he belonged in the moment.  It was what made him believe that part of the Code was wrong, for anyone who decried attachments had never been in a balanced relationship, one that made him feel closer to the Force than anything else. 

“No more nights apart,” he murmured against Qui-Gon’s lips, his eyes already sliding closed.  “I’ve had enough of that.”

“The Council might protest your declaration, love,” Qui-Gon whispered.

“Still have plenty of rocks.  Been saving ’em for the right opportunity,” Obi-Wan said, and fell asleep in the midst of another kiss.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan awoke to the sound of voices, and swam his groggy way towards consciousness.  Qui-Gon he picked out first, his voice a low murmur, and then Adi, a soft whisper. 

“Stop talking about me when I’m sleeping,” he slurred in protest, even though he was barely aware of what they were saying.

“Well, then stop sleeping like a coma patient,” Adi said, her voice tinged with snappish aggravation.  “You missed breakfast and lunch, by the way.”

 _What?_   Obi-Wan forced himself into a sitting position, opening his eyes.  He blinked and rubbed at them with both hands, concerned when the darkness of sleep didn’t seem to be going away.  “Are the lights on in here?”

The bed dipped, and Qui-Gon’s presence was unmistakable despite the unending sleep-grog.  “Look at me,” he commanded, and Obi-Wan turned his head in the proper direction.  “The lights are on, Obi-Wan.  What do you see?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again.  “Nothing.”  There was a short flurry of internal panic at the thought that he quickly quelled; he wasn’t blind.  He understood that in the way that he sometimes knew what the day would bring, despite not suffering through the intensity of a Force vision.  “It’s like I’m sitting in a dark room.”

Adi’s cooler, slender fingers brushed his forehead as Obi-Wan looked around, trying to take in details of a room that wouldn’t appear.  “That’s odd.  I don’t sense anything wrong,” she said. 

 _Up to me, then,_ Obi-Wan grumbled, and closed his eyes once more.  He focused and swore, fighting to get his optic nerves and his brain to cooperate.  He blew out a long breath, paused, and then opened his eyes again.  Qui-Gon was before him, smudged by dark spots in Obi-Wan’s vision. 

“Well, that’s better.  Sort of,” Obi-Wan said, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers in an effort to dispel the spots.

“What happened?” Adi asked, kneeling down in front of him.  He could feel another pass of her whispery Force-sense, examining him from top to bottom.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head.  “It felt…strange.  Like all of me wasn’t waking up.”

“And I still sense nothing wrong,” Adi said, frustrated.  “Qui-Gon, do you?  The pair of you have always had a fairly significant connection.”

“Let me see,” Qui-Gon murmured, brushing Obi-Wan’s temples with his fingertips.  Obi-Wan closed his eyes, feeling the wave of Qui-Gon’s earth-like touch searching through his body and his consciousness, seeking…

He jolted awake when Qui-Gon shook his shoulders.  Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open to find the other man staring at him in alarm.  “What?”

“Force!” Qui-Gon gripped Obi-Wan’s hand tightly, his other hand still resting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  “You were out again in seconds!”

Obi-Wan blinked a few times, feeling a dull ache behind his eyes.  “Sorry.  Didn’t plan to.”

“And I sensed nothing,” Qui-Gon said, his blue eyes filled with concern.  “This isn’t normal, Adi.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed.  “We need to get back to Coruscant.  We need real Healers, not just my rusty skills.”

“We can’t go without getting into the computer,” Obi-Wan protested.  “If we leave, that data won’t be here when we come back.  Right now, that’s the only lead we have on the identity of any other Sith.”

Qui-Gon growled.  “Sometimes I want to swat Yoda with his own stick for teaching you too well.”

Obi-Wan grinned, despite the spots dancing in front of his eyes and the vague sense of exhaustion he could feel even now, tugging at him.  “You started it.”

While Qui-Gon wrapped his arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and continued to grumble, Adi gazed at Obi-Wan through narrowed eyes.  “One more day,” she said.  “After that, the three of you are going back to Coruscant.  I’ll stay here and work on the code until someone can relieve me.”

“You can’t stay here alone, Adi!” Qui-Gon snapped, glaring at the other Master.  “If a Sith Lord comes hunting for his apprentice, you would be dealing with him alone.”

Obi-Wan decided it was time to stand up and get moving, lest two stubborn Jedi begin to butt heads.  “Then let’s go break that code now, and then we can _all_ go home,” he said. 

Anakin was already up in the tower when Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon arrived after Adi, as the lift was only large enough for two people at a time.  The boy was frowning at the terminal display, chewing on a long stick of what looked like fried tafeet.  “Hello!” he greeted Obi-Wan cheerfully.  “You sleep too much.”

“So I’ve been told,” Obi-Wan drawled, snagging a chair and sitting down next to Anakin while Adi and Qui-Gon took the secondary terminal.  “Come up with anything?”

Anakin frowned.  “Well, I managed to find the sound, so I can hear what I’m typing and the computer can audibly tell me I’ve screwed up.  Other than that, not much.  The sounds are kinda pretty, though.  Listen to this.”  The boy ran his fingers along the Aurebesh-signed keys, drawing forth a different tone from each key. 

“Huh.  Harmonics-based code, then?” Obi-Wan posited, drifting his fingers over the flat-panel and pressing a few of the keys out of curiosity.  His ear, trained during creche sessions and an in-and-out love affair with music, picked up no disharmony or blurry notes.  “Perfectly pitched.  Interesting.”

“Not harmonics, though,” Adi said, hooking up her datapad to run another attempt at code bypass.  “Tried that earlier.  Pretty, but not useful.”

They settled into work, though Obi-Wan was having a horrible time concentrating.  Every time he attempted to relax into the work, the pull of sleep would call to him.  As the afternoon progressed, it was getting harder and harder to shake off the need to rest.  Finally he snorted, pillowed his head on his arm, and looked at Anakin.  “Keep trying.  I’m going to listen to what you do while I sleep and see if my subconscious is smarter than I am.”

“Kay,” Anakin said, chewing on his lower lip and engrossed in what he was doing.  The boy was an excellent pattern reader, Obi-Wan thought, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t dream, but sounds swam into his mind.  He was able to keep his sleep light enough to contemplate what he heard, if muzzily. 

Some hours later, Obi-Wan sat bolt upright, startling the other three people in the room.  “Do that again,” he told Anakin.

“Do what?” Anakin asked, curious.  “I was just playing through the code line you used to get communications partly open.  I didn’t have any other ideas, and I wanted to hear what it sounded like.”  Anakin typed in the sequence once more, and the tune was exactly what Obi-Wan thought he had heard.

“Exactly,” Obi-Wan said, his thoughts racing as he tried to compare the Aurebesh-assigned notes to what he remembered.  “Scoot over.”

Anakin moved his chair aside and allowed Obi-Wan to take his place in front of the terminal.  Adi and Qui-Gon left their terminal and stood behind Obi-Wan. 

“What is it?” Qui-Gon asked.

Obi-Wan shook his head, too busy concentrating on notes.  He ran his fingertips over each letter, listening to the notes that were played, finding half-notes hidden in the system function keys, and then typed out the first decoding line he’d managed successfully days before.  Hardly daring to take a breath, he continued typing, the notes pouring forth a continuing melody from which the first code had begun.

“By the Force,” Adi murmured.  “They keyed it by song.”

“Not just any song,” Obi-Wan said, pressing his lips together as he made himself remember the music.  Systems were opening up as he typed, displaying textual information on the complex, weather, nearby system traffic…  “It’s the _Diurnal Iniquity_.  It’s an opera.”

“An opera?”  Adi sounded amused.  “The entire code is based around an opera?”

“Well, to be fair, it’s a very old, unpopular one,” Obi-Wan said, frowning as he tried to remember the next movement.  “The only reason I know it is because I spent a very bored night in the Archives once, identifying and cataloguing unlabeled music disks for Master Jocasta.  It’s one of the more creepily dramatic things I’ve ever heard.  I listened to it a few times; it sort of…draws you in.  From what I researched, its lack of popularity had to do with the story behind the opera, which was not pleasant.”

“What’s it about?” Qui-Gon asked, as Obi-Wan remembered and began typing once more.  That particular section of music opened up the databank.

“The daily sins of those who dwell in Darkness,” Obi-Wan murmured.  “Supposedly it was a thinly based allegory for the Sith.”

“I’d believe it,” Anakin said, looking unhappy.  “This stuff is eerie.”

Obi-Wan let his eyes roam through the file names that popped up, noticing a log file for communications.  “Let’s see what our friends have to say, shall we?”

The moment he played the file, Obi-Wan regretted it.  What came through the speakers was no language he’d ever heard.  It was brutal, hissing, twisted, and made every hair on his body stand on end.

“Shut it off,” Qui-Gon said tersely.

“Seconded!” Adi exclaimed.

Anakin’s eyes were huge, his lips bloodless, as Obi-Wan cut the audio.  “What was that?” he whispered.

“The language of the Sith,” Obi-Wan said softly, going back to the code and finishing the last section of the opera, which wound up being the last of the decoding the system needed.  He sat back, rubbing his fingers together absently.  He felt tainted, headachy, and completely drained.  The black spots were back in front of his eyes, and they were growing. 

“Aw, hell,” he muttered, and slumped out of the chair.  He felt Qui-Gon’s hands catch him just as sleep snatched him in her grasp and turned afternoon sunlight into darkness.

The next time he opened his eyes, fighting to gain vision against the pervading blackness that wanted to suck him under, the thrum of a sublight drive was vibrating against his back.  Ship-bound, he thought, feeling nauseous and exhausted.  Too exhausted.  He knew his body well enough to know that he should have been far more recovered than this, poison or no poison.  Obi-Wan sat up and his head swam.  He groaned and put his head between his knees, staring down at his bare toes and willing the feeling to pass.

“Here,” Adi said, putting a cup of water in his hands.  “Drink that, slowly.”

He did so, but this time even the water felt wrong in his stomach.  He passed the half-full cup back to her, shaking his head.  “Can’t,” he muttered.

“Then you need to eat something,” she said, as he slowly lifted his head to look at her.  Except for the lack of fever, he was starting to feel almost as bad as when he _had_ been fighting off the Sith poison. 

Adi gave him a sympathetic look.  “It’s either food or intravenous nutrition.”

He considered for a long moment before holding out his arm with a weak smile.

Adi sighed, surprising Obi-Wan by sitting down on the bunk next to him and giving him a strong hug.  “Hold on,” she told him after ending the embrace, giving him a stern look even as her eyes glimmered with tears.  “Don’t you dare quit fighting, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” he said, before the dark splotches started invading his vision once more.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Waking up had become less a battle and more a war.  He forced his eyes to open, for his eyes to _see_ , and reached out to touch the hand that Qui-Gon immediately offered.  The hall was quiet, which meant night, with the lulling softness of the recyclers blowing air throughout the Healers’ Hall the primary sound.  He had only flashes of moments he could recall from the journey to Coruscant, as he had lost more and more of his ability to remain conscious.

Obi-Wan didn’t have to ask if the Healers had an answer for his increasing lethargy; he could see it in the hard set of Qui-Gon’s jaw, the tight lines of worry around his eyes.  It took a great deal of energy and concentration to lift his hand, to brush his fingers along the softness of his love’s bottom lip.

Qui-Gon grabbed his hand and shook his head.  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, his eyes dark with concern and temper.  “No goodbyes.”

 _No,_ he agreed, blinking up at the man who, despite every obstacle placed in their path, was at his side, in his heart.  _Stay with me?_ he asked, wanting that comfort, even if he wasn’t conscious to appreciate it.

Qui-Gon’s ability to hear him had remained, despite their time apart.  “I am not going anywhere,” he said, and Obi-Wan smiled and let his eyes slide closed. 

Obi-Wan could vaguely sense time passing, even with the bouts of deep unconsciousness when he was aware of nothing at all.  When he felt a new day arrive, he started to fret, worried that Qui-Gon was going to resume an old habit and neglect his own health while trying to keep watch over his former Padawan.  But then he faded out again…

He woke up to the almost jarring feel of Anakin holding his hand; he knew it from the nova-bright touch in the Force and from the way the boy’s grip seemed to roam around in Obi-Wan’s much larger hand.  The Force-touch, unintentional as it might have been, was strong enough that he didn’t even need to fight with his eyes, this time. 

“Hi,” Anakin said, his normally bright blue eyes dim, his mouth a pinched smile.  “The Healers made Qui-Gon go eat, so I said I’d stay, and Master Yoda has Council, so you’re stuck with me.”

_S’okay._

“Really?” Anakin’s smile became more genuine.  “You really need to get better, you know.”

Obi-Wan sighed and rolled his eyes.  _Imp.  Trying.  Not sure what’s wrong._   Somehow he wasn’t surprised that Anakin could hear him.  It seemed like the sort of thing a Force-nova would be able to do.

“Nobody’s sure what’s wrong, but Master Yoda’s depressed, and seeing him depressed is depressing everyone else,” Anakin said, and sighed.  Another tingle of energy assailed Obi-Wan’s palm, running up his arm and making his skin break out in gooseflesh.

 _That helps,_ he said, wondering if he sounded as surprised as he felt.  Energy transfers had already been tried, first by Adi and Qui, then later by the Temple Healers.  However, they weren’t Anakin Skywalker.

“What does?” Anakin asked, giving him a baffled look.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and repressed a sigh.  His first lifeline in days, and the provider was entirely ignorant of what he was doing.  The universe had a cruel sense of humor.  _This,_ he said, and concentrated on returning the second, tiny filament of energy Anakin had offered him, sliding it into Anakin’s skin the same way it had come through his palm.

Anakin’s eyes got huge.  “Oh, wow!  That’s something real?”  The boy grinned.  “I used to tell other people about that, but they had no idea what I was talking about!”  He scrunched up his face, as if concentrating, and a new rush of vibrant energy flooded Obi-Wan’s arm, giving him clear thoughts and bringing an idea in its wake.

 _Ani,_ he said, focusing on his speech even as the idea percolated in the back of his mind, gaining form and substance.  _Need a favor._

“Sure,” Anakin said, his small face serious.  “What is it?”

_Fetch…Healers.  Qui-Gon.  Definitely Yoda.  Have an idea, and I’m going to try it.  If it doesn’t work, will need all the help I can get to save my rear-end._

Anakin frowned.  “That doesn’t sound like a great idea.”

 _Limited options, kiddo._   Obi-Wan managed a smile.  _Stick around, after.  You may be able to help them.  Don’t be afraid,_ he added, squeezing Anakin’s small hand in his own. _I don’t die easily._

“I hope not,” Anakin muttered, sliding down off of the bed.  Obi-Wan watched him until he made it to the door of his room before closing his eyes, the first time in days he’d done so with intent. 

Fighting against whatever was draining the life from his body had accomplished nothing; had in fact, possibly, made things worse.  _When all else fails, do the opposite,_ he thought, feeling a wry smile upon his lips.  The he plunged straight down into the core of his consciousness, into sleep and beyond it.

He missed the shrill alarm that sounded, signaling a severe change in his vital signs.

His inner self was a place he knew, but one he usually visited in subconscious form, while in intense meditation or trance.  Obi-Wan had never visited it in a quite so consciously aware fashion before, and the impressions and feelings, while his own, felt _alien_ in this state. 

He focused and narrowed his senses, putting aside everything he knew that was of himself, hunting for something that might not belong.  He had dueled a Sith twice, succeeding in vanquishing it the second time, but that didn’t mean that death had ended Maul’s threat.  No Jedi had fought a Sith in a millennia; it was possible that Maul was winning on another level, entirely.

At the core of his consciousness was a single black thread, almost completely hidden within everything that made up Obi-Wan Kenobi.  He gathered himself, took on the intimation of form, and touched it.  He could feel the sick, malignant nature of the thread, and it was not pleasant.  Not of himself.  Not of Maul, either.

Obi-Wan considered the thread, giving it a strong yank with both hands.  Fierce, blinding pain struck his mind, and he grimaced and rubbed his forehead.  Whoever was touching him, whoever had woven this thread into his base consciousness, had done a very good job. 

That made him pause.  If not Maul, then who?

He frowned and touched the thread again, this time following it as it led him away and out, through gray spaces that he ignored as he concentrated on following the single line to its source…

…and came face to proverbial face with a great, roiling darkness.  _The fuck?!_

The dark cloud seemed to gain form, becoming the shape of a man wearing cloak and cowl.  Featureless, murky, it still radiated maliciousness.  _Who is the phantom now, Jedi?_

Obi-Wan jerked back in surprise and found that he could no longer retreat.  _Who are you?_

 _You must know,_ the shape said in a whisper, melting into a moving substance that swirled around him before reforming its vague cloak-shape on Obi-Wan’s right side.  _You knew the work of Darth Valath, after all._

 _Valath?_   The name was familiar, but… 

Obi-Wan blinked, drawing in a deep breath.  _Valath D’Pathinse,_ he said, watching as the cloak-shape circled him.  _The man who wrote the Diurnal Iniquity was a Sith?_

 _Who better to write of a Sith than a Sith himself?_ the shape asked him, chuckling. _Oh, you Jedi are so amusing.  The Sith were never extinct.  Merely…cautious.  Waiting.  Hiding.  We knew our time would come again._

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and called upon the Force.  _Your time is not_ this _time,_ he said, and he flung the gathered power at the shade.

The light that hid the shadow crackled and popped, running down the shape’s black cloak and becoming nothing.  _You are no Jedi Master, boy,_ the cloak-shape said, laughing. 

With that, the shade came for him, wrapping him in tendrils of darkness that burned when they touched him.  Obi-Wan struggled against the bindings, ignoring the pain, focusing on the Force as he fought back. 

There was a sharp, agonizing spike of pressure on his mind when the shroud wrapped his head, and then he was trapped in roiling blackness.  It was in his ears, in his thoughts, down his throat, and he was choking on it.

 _I told you that Jedi can die, young fool,_ the Darkness told him, accompanied by the sounds of laughter in his ears, laughter that sounded like a thousand tortured souls.  _But there are worse things than death!  I will consume your memories, your strengths, your fears, your essence!  You will be nothing but an empty shell.  No part of you shall join the Force, for you will be part of the line of the Sith for all time!_

 _NO!_ he cried, the word nothing but an echo that was swallowed by the darkness eating him alive.

Then, along his arm, a sensation so faint he almost lost it—tingling.  Familiar, tingling energy, a touch to his fingertips that created a line of energy to his core.  Anakin.  _Anakin!_

The tingle increased, growing from a narrow trickle to a wider stream, and Obi-Wan understood what he needed to do.  He opened himself up to the strength Anakin was sending, letting it flood his body and mind.  The power of Anakin’s Light drove the Darkness out of his body, tore it from his skin, left him in a cloud of protective energy that the swirling shade surrounded, anger radiating from all parts of it. 

 _Light conquers Darkness, always,_ Obi-Wan growled, feeling his hands light up from the intensity of the energy he was channeling.  _Sith can die too, you know._

As if recognizing that it no longer had the advantage, the Darkness gathered itself to flee, but Obi-Wan wasn’t going to allow it.  He grabbed hold of the shade, feeling something burn under his hands.

_Stop!  You must not!_

_I must,_ Obi-Wan replied, feeling a moment’s sympathy for the being he was about to destroy.  The ancient pledge of the Jedi was written into his core, borne of training and the blood he’d shed for others as he’d walked the path to Knighthood.  The Sith must be stopped.

 _No!_   The Dark shade surrounded him once more, seeking to rend and destroy the Light Obi-Wan bore.  Instead, it only gave Obi-Wan the perfect opportunity to release what he’d been given by Anakin Skywalker, and the Force Light expanded around him, vaporizing Darkness.

The shade screamed once, gibbering and full of false promises that were quickly muted as its essence was utterly burned away.

 

*          *          *          *

 

In the office of the Supreme Chancellor, the white-haired man seated behind the desk let loose a final breath and died, collapsing in his chair while a small collection of stunned aides looked on.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The tingling rush of energy went away as if it had never been, and Obi-Wan’s mind was clear.  He had a single moment’s relief before he realized that he had no way back.  The thread that he had followed was gone, and he sensed no path to himself in the surrounding nothingness.

 _No,_ Obi-Wan thought, shaking his head stubbornly.  _There has to be a way back.  There is no way in hell that I went through all of this to die anyway.  I.  Refuse!_

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and concentrated, seeking out a connection he knew _had_ to exist, for he had dreamed of his other half’s return before he had known what it meant.

When he opened his eyes again, the blue threads were there, tiny glowing lines that disappeared into the distance.  Obi-Wan smiled and touched them, feeling the answering vibration that meant recognition.  He let himself be pulled along by the threads, traveling back through those gray spaces as if they were only blinks in time. 

 _Traveling too fast,_ he thought vaguely, right before he felt the interesting, slip-slidey _odd_ sensation of skipping through and beyond his own body and slamming into the whole of someone else’s consciousness.  He was barely aware of staggering back, his core self recognizing where it belonged and finding its home, as a far more peaceful darkness engulfed him.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Are you well, Knight Kenobi?” Master Windu asked, regarding him with his usual sober gaze.

Obi-Wan looked down at his hands.  They were wrapped in bandages, allowing them further time to heal.  Channeling the sheer amount of raw power that Anakin had in his tiny frame had left his hands raw, red, and burned.  It would be a few more days, plus a few more bacta salve treatments, before the Healers would allow him to remove the bandages. 

He still had days where he felt wobbly and light-headed, but the constant need for sleep, the exhaustion that had plagued him, was gone.  “I’ll live, Master,” he said at last.

Master Windu smiled.  “That’s good to hear.”  The smile faded, and his brow furrowed.  “I trust you have learned your lesson about taking on Sith Lords by yourself?”

Obi-Wan grimaced.  “While it wasn’t my intent to do so in the first place…yes, Master.  Without Anakin Skywalker’s help, I wouldn’t be standing here.  If there are any more Sith lurking about, they’re all yours.”

“No, thanks,” Adi said, shaking her head.  “I believe you’ve done us all a favor, Obi-Wan.  With their established Rule of Two, it is highly doubtful that any Sith remain.”

Obi-Wan glanced over at his Master.  Yoda was sitting with his eyes half-closed, fiddling with his gimer stick, but he met Obi-Wan’s gaze.  No, the little Master wasn’t quite convinced that the Sith were gone for good, either.  _Hard to see, the Dark Side is,_ he thought.

 _Indeed, Padawan,_ Master Yoda replied, a sigh in his mental voice. 

“There is, however, the matter of the political fall-out,” Master Mundi began, his voice hesitant.  Obi-Wan regarded the Council warily.  This was what he did not yet know—the public identity of the Sith he and Anakin, with Yoda and Qui-Gon’s backing, had destroyed.

Master Windu sighed.  “We have decided that it is in the Order’s best interest not to reveal the presence of the Sith to the public, especially in light of current events.”

When Obi-Wan looked baffled, Master Saesee shook his head.  “It was Valorum, Obi-Wan.”

Of all of the names Obi-Wan might have expected to hear, that one was the very last.  His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before speech was possible. 

“What?” he said, his voice faint with shock.

Adi gave him a sympathetic look.  “When the Sith you fought was destroyed, Chancellor Valorum died at his desk, surrounded by his staff.  His passing has been recorded as natural, if untimely, since it seems to the medical examiner that massive heart failure was the cause of death.”

“You can understand, now, why we wish to maintain the nature of your battle with the Sith a secret,” Master Windu said, steepling his fingers together as he looked at Obi-Wan.  “It will keep the Senate calm, and protect the Order’s interests, to believe that Chancellor Valorum was the man we all thought he was.  Any rulings he made that favored the Republic will remain unchallenged, which is all for the best.”

Obi-Wan nodded faintly, his head spinning.  “Valorum?” he said again, almost daring them to say that he was being subjected to a massive Council prank.

“I realize that you worked with him personally on multiple occasions, and this must be a shock,” Master Saesee said.  “Hell, we’ve _all_ worked with him, many times side by side.  It’s…hard to think of the Sith and Finis Valorum as being one and the same, but it’s true.”

Obi-Wan nodded again, because really, what else could he say?

Master Windu seemed satisfied with that.  “I know that we can trust in your discretion on this matter.  You may discuss this with Master Jinn, of course; given your situation, it’s likely that he already knows, but Initiate Skywalker does _not_ need to know.  Understand?”

He swallowed, if only to make sure he had a voice to answer with.  “I understand.”

“Good,” Mace said, seemingly pleased.  “Ki?”

“In the meantime, the situation with the Naboo has resolved itself,” Master Mundi began, and Obi-Wan welcomed the change in subject.  “Governor Amidala has outlasted the Trade Federation, which has signed a new treaty drawn up to her specifics, and they are no longer blockading the system.  Amidala is interim-ruler of Naboo until elections can be held, so we have no concerns about Naboo’s government.”

Adi smiled at Obi-Wan.  “Governor Amidala has invited you, Master Jinn, Initiate Skywalker, and Skywalker’s mother to a celebration of the new Gungan-Naboo alliance.  You will all stand with Knights Pevell, Bastion, Friere, and Soourin at the ceremony, representing the Order on behalf of actions performed to safeguard the Naboo.  Your transport leaves tomorrow.  The time spent on this particular mission should give you the chance to finish healing from your ordeal.”

Obi-Wan kept his features expressionless, wondering if he had heard Adi correctly.  _Did they just give me a vacation?_   “One hopes, Master Gallia.”

“When you return, you and Master Jinn will be placed back on the mission roster, and likely be performing your first mission together,” Master Windu added, and Obi-Wan glanced over at the Haruun-Kal Master in surprise.

Master Windu snorted at the expression on Obi-Wan’s face.  “Given the circumstances, it would be difficult to expect otherwise.  I’d rather have you both doing what you can, instead of nothing at all.  Now get out of here.  You look like you’re about to fall down.”

Obi-Wan licked suddenly dry lips.  “Yes, Master,” he said, and bowed to the assembled Council before hurriedly taking his leave.

He could find Qui-Gon without even needing to focus.  Obi-Wan was largely unsurprised to see that Qui-Gon was sitting on the same bench they’d shared years ago, when the other man had returned to the Temple after Master Micah’s death. 

Qui-Gon made room for him on the bench without looking up, just as aware of Obi-Wan’s presence as Obi-Wan was of his.  Obi-Wan swept his robe to the side and sat down, grateful to be off his feet.  He put his bandaged hands in his lap with careful, controlled motions, not willing to set off painful echoes in his aching, healing skin. 

“You know?” he asked, his voice soft.

“I know,” Qui-Gon answered with a faint nod.  “Are you all right?”

Obi-Wan stared down at the bandages.  “I’ve just been told that I assassinated the Chancellor of the Republic.  How the fuck am I supposed to feel?”

Qui-Gon sighed.  “I don’t know,” he said, and then he lifted his arm, laying it over Obi-Wan’s shoulders and pulling him close.  Obi-Wan felt himself relax, tension fleeing his frame that he didn’t even realize he’d had; Valorum and Qui-Gon had been friends longer than Obi-Wan had been alive.

“Oh, love, I don’t blame you.”  Qui-Gon shifted, allowing their bodies to settle more comfortably against each other.  “I can scarcely believe it, is all.  It will take some meditation, and a great deal of time, before I come to terms with what Finis really was.”

“We’ve been invited to Naboo,” Obi-Wan said, probably unnecessarily, but he didn’t want to remain silent, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.  “We leave tomorrow, with Anakin.  Perhaps the time away from Coruscant will help us both.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon agreed.  “Of course, I know of some other things that will most certainly distract me from such dire thoughts.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow as he sat up.  “Oh?”  He could sense mischievousness in the other man, and the beginnings of some plot, but Qui-Gon was adapting to their newly deepened bond much faster than he was, and was able to hide the actual nature of the upcoming shenanigans. 

“Whatever you’re planning, please bear in mind that the Healers will skin you alive if you overtire me or give me alcoholic substances right now.”

“Then it’s a good thing I plan on doing neither,” Qui-Gon replied, and his eyes were dancing, much as they had on Corellia. 

“Qui—” he managed, before there were lips on his, and an arm was wrapping its way around his waist.  Obi-Wan sighed into the kiss, the first intimate moment they’d shared since the defeat of the Sith Lord.

Qui-Gon’s touch was like electricity on his body, tired and injured or not.  Obi-Wan nipped at the lips on his own, using his tongue to signal a request for entry.  It was granted, and he groaned and grabbed hold of Qui-Gon’s hair as their tongues slid together.  The pain in his hands flared and he quelled it, tweaking nerves with the Force, because he had _better things to do._  

Qui-Gon purred into his mouth like a pleased feline, then abandoned Obi-Wan’s lips.  He was about to complain when his chin was tilted up with gentle, insistent fingers, and then a tongue was leaving a hot, wet path on his skin as Qui-Gon followed the column of his throat down.

There was a hand on—no, _in_ his trousers, fingers on his cock, massaging an erection that was already aching.  “Qui-Gon Jinn, what are you doing— _we are in public!_ ” Obi-Wan yelped the last as a callused thumb ran over the slit, spreading slick heat, and he almost fell off the damn bench.

Qui-Gon paused his nibbling exploration of Obi-Wan’s neck, breathing warmth against his ear.  “No one’s around, the children are in class, and I am in no mood to wait.  Stop complaining, please.”

“I can if I—oh, fuuuuuck,” he hissed out, as Qui-Gon increased the pressure of his grip, sliding his fist up and down.

“Later,” Qui-Gon said, delivering a swift, sharp bite to his ear that made Obi-Wan’s eyes roll back.  The hand left his cock, but only long enough to loosen the stays on his trousers and shove them out of the way, freeing his cock and treating it to an almost too-cool breeze from the courtyard.  Then the warmth returned, and he was pulled closer, cradled by the much larger man as Qui-Gon worked at driving him to complete distraction.

“Did I ever tell you why I wound up making out in a prison cell with Micah?” Qui-Gon asked, taking a moment to nuzzle the junction of Obi-Wan’s neck and shoulder.  The bristled feel of Qui-Gon’s beard made him shiver.

“N—no,” Obi-Wan stuttered, surprised.  “Didn’t know it was Master Micah, either.  What did the two of you do to get tossed in jail?”

Qui-Gon chuckled against his skin.  “This,” he said, and he bent down and took Obi-Wan into his mouth.

Obi-Wan gasped, arching up in surprise and immediate, lustful need, his breath coming in sharp gasps.  “Oh, gods!  Fuck!  Fuck, that’s—oh, _oh!_ ”

 _Inspiring,_ Qui-Gon’s mental voice said, utterly smug, and then his tongue was _doing things_ , and Obi-Wan lost his ability to speak coherently.

 _Never done this before!_ he sent back, wanting to put his hands in Qui-Gon’s hair, wanting to be fucked by the man, wanting the wonderful, hot pressure on his cock to never, ever stop. 

Qui-Gon hummed a long, thoughtful note, and Obi-Wan wondered if the top of his head coming off made a noise.  _Put your hands wherever you want, love.  Shows your enthusiasm for the process._

 _Don’t ever call this a “process” again,_ Obi-Wan retorted, shuddering.  He buried his hands in Qui-Gon’s hair, gathering it into his clenched fists, and moaned when his cock was taken even deeper into that intense, sucking warmth, his hips trembling as he tried hard not to thrust.

Qui-Gon dropped down from the bench, somehow managing to move without stopping what he was doing.  His large hands gripped Obi-Wan’s waist, pulling him forward so that he was perched on the edge of the bench.  _Do it,_ Qui-Gon encouraged him, his mental voice a purring rumble.  _Fuck my mouth._

Obi-Wan’s mouth fell open, shaking as the sheer eroticism of Qui-Gon’s words struck him like a blast of hot steam.  “But—I—”

 _Please,_ Qui-Gon pleaded.  _I wanted to do this to you years ago._ Please!

“Gods!” Obi-Wan shouted, his control shattered.  He thrust hard, feeling his cock bump the back of Qui-Gon’s throat, but Qui-Gon’s hands on his hips were tightening their grip, encouraging him.  He thrust again, lost in his own pleasure and spurred on by the muffled yet _extremely_ pleased sounds his lover was making. 

Once more, and Obi-Wan could feel the hard edge of Qui-Gon’s nose pressing into his belly; when Qui-Gon swallowed around him, Obi-Wan keened sharply, curling over Qui-Gon’s head as his orgasm hit, feeling like it was being sucked from his very bones.  Qui-Gon’s tongue bathed him as he shuddered, his hips spasming and then shaking, before he did his level best to collapse on top of the other man.

Qui-Gon caught him, held him, whispering nonsense into Obi-Wan’s ear as Obi-Wan thought vaguely about putting his brain back inside his head. 

“Force, you’re beautiful,” Qui-Gon murmured, which made him grin tiredly.

“Will…have to return…the favor,” Obi-Wan wheezed, exhausted and uncaring.  The pain in his hands was slowly ramping back up, but Force, it had been worth it.

“Oh, no need right now,” Qui-Gon said, chuckling against Obi-Wan’s hair.  “However, I am going to need to find a ’fresher, and a clean pair of pants.”

Obi-Wan laughed.  “I have a ’fresher,” he said.

Qui-Gon lifted his head, raising an eyebrow.  “Do you, now?”

He nodded.  “Uh-huh.  You’re invited to use it, of course.”

Qui-Gon smiled.  “But I don’t think I’d fit in your pants.”

Obi-Wan grinned, feeling unbelievably happy and content.  “Then I’ll take them off.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Their bond had a separation limit of five hundred kilometers.

They discovered this the day after returning from Naboo.  Qui-Gon decided to go to Finis Valorum’s funeral, while Obi-Wan elected to stay in his—their—quarters.  He still wasn’t comfortable with the thought that he’d killed the Chancellor of the Republic, Sith or no Sith.  Valorum’s public funeral was being held on his family’s ancient estate, on the other side of Coruscant’s Western Sea, after the family’s period of private mourning.

The strain hit at three hundred kilometers, when Obi-Wan broke out in a sweat in the midst of teaching Anakin how to use the Temple’s data net.  Four hundred kilometers and his body was aching.  Five hundred and he was on the floor and insensible, with Anakin in a panic.

If Qui-Gon hadn’t been traveling with the Council members that had gone to represent the Jedi Order, there would have been two more funerals to arrange.  As it was, they regained consciousness on the same bed in the Healers’ Hall. 

When asked later why he could give the distance so precisely, Obi-Wan blinked, shrugged, and admitted that he had no idea.  He’d just known.

“What the hell is going on?” Qui-Gon asked, allowing Obi-Wan to feel that he wasn’t threatened by the thought of being so attached to the young Knight, merely concerned.

The Healer in question, Sashana, looked as baffled as they felt.  “You both already know that this bond is not like a traditional one, be it training bond, pairbond, or Lifebond.  Those are always composed of a single line that connects one being to another, even if more than two beings are involved.” 

The Traseeki woman rubbed at her head-scales.  “This…this _thing_ between you and Knight Kenobi is unlike anything we’ve ever seen.  Multiple lines connect you both, and those lines cannot be cut—we attempted to sever one while you were both unconscious, and it resisted all our efforts,” she explained.  “We’d theorized that this deeper connection would have settled, given your mammalian tendencies,” she said, grinning for a moment. 

 _Mammalian tendencies,_ Obi-Wan mused.  _That’s a new way of putting it._

 _She might as well call it a process,_ Qui-Gon teased.

“However, it doesn’t even adjust via physical proximity like a normal bond does, so that leaves us at a loss.  I would stay close to each other.  The Council has already followed our recommendation that the two of you are treated as a bonded pair, so you will be sent on the same missions.”

“One concern,” Obi-Wan said, holding up a finger to gain the Healer’s attention.  “What if one of us is abducted, thus increasing the chance for separation at a distance greater than five hundred kliks?”

The Traseeki Healer gave him a helpless look.  “Try not to be?”

Given that the Healers were, by and large, clueless, Qui-Gon suggested that researching the matter on their own was in order.  Reading ancient texts had never been Obi-Wan’s favorite activity, but he had to admit that it was greatly improved by the company he was in.  When they weren’t slowly acclimating to working together once more, pulling light mission rotations, the bonded pair spent the time lounging on the couch in their newly shared quarters, perusing texts on datapads uploaded directly from the Archives.

One such evening, Qui-Gon sighed, sounding frustrated.  Obi-Wan, lying on the couch, his head pillowed against Qui-Gon’s thigh, looked up in surprise.  “Something wrong?”

Qui-Gon shook his head, amused.  “I followed a few threads and wound up among some of Sal-Tur’s old prophecies.”

Obi-Wan frowned.  “Most of those had to do with the foretold Chosen One.  I’d think Anakin would fit that profile more than the two of us.”

“And I’d agree with you,” Qui-Gon said, his free hand finding Obi-Wan’s hair, nails raking lightly along his scalp.  Obi-Wan closed his eyes and gave voice to a sigh of his own.  “Though, Force knows, Ani doesn’t need _that_ dropped on his head, and I won’t be mentioning Sal-Tur in front of the Council anytime soon.” 

Obi-Wan nodded his agreement.  Anakin garnered enough trouble as it was, and there was a lot of grumbling about preferential treatment among the older Initiates and younger Padawans.

“It’s the part of the prophecy that discusses bringing balance that caught my attention.  From a certain point of view, this bond could qualify,” Qui-Gon explained.

“So, when Anakin was channeling through us, it…what, cemented a bond that means we can never truly separate?”  Obi-Wan smiled.  “Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t understand how that could be considered balance.”

“Perhaps it is less about the beings involved and more about the situation?” Qui-Gon mused.  “Anakin would never have been able to destroy the Sith without our presence.”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said, and felt a flare of angry prescience that he didn’t understand, but trusted nonetheless.  “But I don’t believe the Sith are truly destroyed.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a long time.  “Nor I,” he admitted at last, and his eyes darkened with grief.

Obi-Wan hated that look.  He shut down his datapad and tossed it aside, before reaching over and plucking Qui-Gon’s ’pad from his hands, as well.  “I think that’s enough bloody research for today,” he announced, crawling over and settling himself into Qui-Gon’s lap, facing his lover and offering the older man a wide smile.  “I’d prefer to spend the rest of the evening studying our mammalian tendencies.”

“Would you, now?” Qui-Gon smiled back, and the expression chased some of the shadows from his eyes.

Obi-Wan held up his hand, and Qui-Gon mirrored the motion, their palms just shy of touching.  In his mind, he could see thousands of those tiny blue threads connecting their hands, bringing Obi-Wan stronger awareness of Qui-Gon’s feelings and thoughts. 

“There’s so many of them,” he murmured.

The tingling feel of them increased as Qui-Gon’s fingers bent and stroked the skin of Obi-Wan’s hand.  “Responsive little things, too,” Qui-Gon said with a teasing smile.  “Just a bit of manipulation, and you start drooling.”

“I am _not_ drooling,” Obi-Wan protested, but then Qui-Gon started kissing him, and the point became moot, anyway.

 

Epilogue:

Darth Zannah gazed down at the Senate antechamber, and thought that the sycophants, Senators, Representatives, aides, and media looked like insects.  _Insects following pre-determined paths_ , she mused as the first chime sounded, signaling the warning that Congress would soon be under way, and it was time to be seated.  The shape of the Senate Dome meant that there were many ways to get to the antechamber, but that room led to specific boxes, and required specific doors.  It had always amused her to watch that initial shuffle as the insects fought to gain their appropriate burrow-holes. 

The same thing was happening on her own level, and on many levels above her, but of all the beings present, she felt no rush to move.  She was old, now, and had the patience of a goddess; when the time came, she would be where she needed to be.  For now, Zannah watched.

“Senator Palpatine!”

Zannah turned in place in response to the hail, making sure her thoughts were not in her eyes, as Mas Amedda approached, his claw-tipped _lekku_ twitching with far too much vigor.  “Senator, I had hoped to see you before now.”

“I apologize,” Zannah said, the smooth, dulcet tones of Palpatine of Naboo’s voice emerging as she spoke.  “There were affairs that I needed to tend to—and, of course, the celebration that took place on my homeworld.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Amedda said.  “My congratulations to your people for such a stunning societal move.  Surely the Naboo example will be a guiding light for the galaxy.”

Zannah smiled at the tripe sentiment.  “Thank you.  You had something you wished to say, Vice Chairman?”

“Ah, yes, yes.  You are, of course, aware that nominations for the Chancellor’s Seat will be placed today.”

The Sith’s smile broadened.  “Indeed!  I was completely shocked when Senator Zar said he had planned to cast a nomination in my name.  Can you imagine such a thing, Chairman?”

Mas Amedda beamed at Zannah.  “Senator, of course I can.  Your presence in the Chancellor’s seat will be a boon to us all.  In fact, that is just what I wanted to speak to you about.  When Zar casts his nomination, it is my full intent to second the motion, ensuring your name makes it onto the ballot.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Zannah said, though in all truth it was hard not to laugh at the fool.  As if she hadn’t been arranging this very thing for years.  Granted, she’d planned political suicide for her pawn, Valorum.  That young Jedi’s intervention meant he died a martyr, but no matter.  Now the Order believed the threat of the Sith dealt with!  Kenobi couldn’t have helped the Sith cause better if he’d tried. 

The path to taking control of the Republic was clear.  By the gods, it was going to be _hers_ this time. 

“And, of course, should you need a person of…efficiency, of integrity, to stand at your side during your tenure as Chancellor…” Amedda began, an utterly insincere smile on his face.

Zannah nodded carefully.  “It would behoove me to make sure I choose the best _allies_ for the job in question, wouldn’t it?”

“Just so,” Amedda said, and this time his oily smile was far more genuine.  The second chime sounded.  “I must go; the Chancellor’s box awaits,” he said.

“It does indeed,” Zannah murmured, placing her gnarled, veined, aging hands on the railing as she watched the last of the insects trickle into place.  She had been waiting for this moment for a thousand years, carrying the legacy of Bane within her soul as she’d jumped from body to body, Master to Apprentice, Apprentice to Master, over millennia.  No Sith had ever known that Darth Zannah still lived, taking over the body of her Apprentice’s secret student at the time of her first death.  No Sith had ever realized that their Master, or their Apprentice, had become host to something much greater than themselves.

Palpatine, her latest acquisition, had been an utterly brilliant student, surpassing Darth Plagueis’s teachings early on.  His strategies, his political savvy, were unmatched by anything Zannah had ever witnessed.  She’d jumped from the old Muun into Palpatine, who’d welcomed her in and shared knowledge with her, something no other Sith had ever done before.  As one entity they had turned and slaughtered Plagueis; finding Maul had come soon after.  The young Dark Lord had become Zannah’s means to ensure the revenge of the Sith, revenge she had once sworn to oversee in person. 

_Soon._

She turned, entering her own little burrow-door and stepping into the Naboo pod, giving the sober Gungan Representative a cheerful nod.  It was time to move forward.  Time to bring the Republic to its knees.

Set Harth was long dead, now, but she thought of him in that moment, gazing out over the vast sea of occupied Senate pods.  Zannah smiled as Mas Amedda called the Senate to order.

“For you, my love,” she whispered.

 

_—Letters to Qui-Gon Jinn, begun January 22, 2011 and completed June 2 nd, 2011._


End file.
